


With Love in Mind

by TuppingLiberty



Series: With Love in Mind [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, Asexual Character, Car Accident, Cock Warming, Daddy Kink, Dom/sub, Facial Shaving, Falling In Love, Healthy Communication, Hospital, Impact Play, Kink Negotiation, Kink Scene, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mentions of a Minor Character's Suicide, Mentions of past abuse, Non-traditional Sugar Daddy, Prescription Medication, Rimming, Seattle, Sensation Play, Sex Toys, Slow Burn, Spanking, Subspace, Sugar Daddy, Tickling, Voyeurism, Word Count: 70k
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-06 08:56:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 81,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14638452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TuppingLiberty/pseuds/TuppingLiberty
Summary: Tongue stuck between his lips, his mind goes quiet for a few precious moments as he concentrates on the polish. He sighs with happiness when he’s done, admiring his toes, wishing he could wear the color on his nails.Graeme Webster, 20, is clawing at survival the best way he can. He works two jobs, but can't make rent. He has an anxiety disorder, but can't afford his meds. He's trying his best, but he needs help.“You might be leaning on urban geekster a bit too hard.”“Okay, I’m probably going to regret asking, but ‘geekster?’”“Geek-hipster. Geekster.”Alan Garry, 30, is an app programming millionaire with a middle class background. He may be a workaholic, but he's carved out time for the Seattle kink scene since being introduced to it in college. He sits somewhere on the asexual spectrum, and the fact that he can't figure out precisely where bothers him more than he'd care to admit.“It’s going to be okay, Graeme. Where do you hurt the most?”An unfortunate chance encounter brings them together, but they realize quite quickly that neither of them are willing to part again.





	1. Meet Graeme

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my romance novel! If you are sub'd to me for my fanfic, this is why I haven't been posting the last couple of months. :) 
> 
> Please mind the tags. They'll update as we go, especially for the more explicit sex and kink stuff. 
> 
> Finally, thank you to Leftwinglibrarian. You are the best beta reader, idea bouncer-offer, and over all human being I know, babe. Thank you <3 <3 <3

Graeme gives his best customer service smile to the condescending, pink velvet track-suit wearing, _jerk_ of a woman standing in front of him, daring her in his mind to just say the inevitable already.

“I’d like to speak to your manager.”

 _And there we go._ “Yes, ma’am,” Graeme says with a nod, twin spikes of anxiety and anger piercing his heart. He should have known the minute he saw her, with her perfect blonde updo, that the customer was going to end up being entitled and unreasonable, blaming _him_ for the fact that what she ordered had mayo on it. Mayo is _clearly_ listed on the menu. But whatever. _What is she even doing at a fast food joint?_ he thinks to himself as he walks away from the counter to find his manager. “Hey, Jer, customer needs to see you.”

Jeremy sighs, pulling his long legs off the break room desk and stretching out. “What’d’ya do this time, Graeme-cracker?” He laughs at the look of anxiety on Graeme’s face and slaps him on the back. “Just kidding, just kidding, I’m sure it’s fine.”

 _Sure. Sure. It’s just fine. Everything is fine,_ he tells his too-rapid heart, and immediately goes to the kitchen to see how he can be helpful in the meantime. If he just stands here until he’s needed at the front again, he’s going to end up spiraling into a panic attack.

_I don't get in trouble that often. This is the first time someone has asked to speak to a manager in months. I’m not getting fired. I’m okay. It’s okay._

The positive self-talk actually helps as a coping mechanism for once, as he slides in beside one of the high schoolers. He thinks her name is Jenna. They come and go, so why bother to learn their names? They’re not going to be stuck here for life, not like him, not like Jeremy. They’re just earning pocket change or gas money or their college fund. The Burger Joint is just a pitstop on their way to a life where _they_ get to be the rich jerk with the blonde updo and pink velvet tracksuit asking for a manager. He doesn’t bother making small talk with the high schoolers. He may have only graduated high school two years ago but he feels _infinitely_ older than them.

Course, he barely makes small talk with the ones like Jeremy, either. He's worked here since he graduated — hell, the Burger Joint might be the steadiest presence he’s ever had in his life — and all he knows about Jeremy is that he's only slightly older than him and he got pegged as management material his first year on the job. Jeremy, as he often likes to tell Graeme, has _ambitions._ Jeremy will own this franchise someday, according to Jeremy. That’s Graeme’s problem, according to Jeremy: Graeme doesn't have _ambitions._

Bull _shit_ Graeme doesn't have ambitions. Graeme’s biggest ambition is the most important ambition anyone could have: to survive. To keep his head above water, because being alive is worth it even if being alive is _this._ He _will not_ give up.

Unfortunately, Graeme’s biggest weakness is that when it comes to survival mode, he doesn’t opt for fight or flight — he opts for freeze. His brain is built that way — anxiety disorder, first diagnosed at 15, first experienced at who the fuck knows, it’s always been like this for Graeme — and the only thing that beats back the anxiety effectively is being on meds. He has a whole array of coping mechanisms that he uses, more often now that the meds are gone. With them, he can string together some manageable hours of his day.

He and the high schooler fall into a routine, automatically slapping burgers and chicken sandwiches together in complete silence. Enough silence that Graeme begins to worry if it’s an awkward silence. If he should fill that silence, even though he doesn’t want to.

Because this is what Graeme’s mind does. Well, it’s what his mental illness does. It finds stupid shit to worry about and worries about it _into the ground_ until he’s caught too deep in the spiral. He should _not_ be worrying about making shit small talk with this high schooler that’s probably going to quit in another month because the Burger Joint is minimum wage and demeaning and beneath her. He doesn’t need to worry about this, he doesn’t, he doesn’t—

“Back to the front, Graeme-cracker,” Jeremy says with a grin, like it’s the funniest joke he’s ever made, despite making it ten minutes ago. Maybe it _was_ funny, the first time Graeme heard it, two years ago. He can’t really remember now. “Gave her a free meal ticket and sent her on her way.”

He manages, just barely, to keep his lip from curling up in contempt. Maybe _he_ should try complaining about petty shit at fast food places, if he could get free meals out of it. Except the thought of eating anything from here, after years of coming home smelling like fry oil every night, makes his stomach turn. He has a deal with Fernando, one of his roommates, anyway. He brings home his comp meal for Fernando every day, and Fernando pays part of his rent.

He has a similar deal worked out with Terrence, except with the food he cooks. Graeme doesn’t have expensive tastes — he can’t afford to — but he _does_ like cooking for himself, figuring out how to do it on his budget. Sure, he buys a lot of dented cans and bruised fruits and veggies, but he makes it work, so Terrence, who can’t cook for shit, pays part of his rent, too. The two deals make the skyrocketed Seattle rent for his closet-of-a-bedroom manageable, for the most part.

Graeme is good at working out deals. He’s used it as a survival mechanism since he was little. Mrs. McCree gave him cooking lessons in return for him keeping her yard clean year round. He edited papers for Billy Jenkins in exchange for protection at school. And most importantly, he stayed out of the house as much as possible so mama could have her private time with her long, varied string of boyfriends, and in return, he didn’t get hurt or yelled at. When he left the trailer park, he exchanged blow jobs for places to stay or less rent or meals, until he got tired of the anxiety that came from waiting for his tests to come back.

He’s negative, right now, and he’s planning on staying that way for the near future, and his life is too messed up to pursue any type of non-reciprocal relationship based on like... love or something. Whatever normal relationships are based on, like he knows normal. Something deep inside him misses and craves the short human contact that came from that sex deals, though.

The world is a series of exchanges, deals, and machinations, and that’s how you get things done, a lesson Graeme learned long ago. Deals mean surviving, and surviving is paramount. His dad hadn’t survived, hadn’t fought to survive, and Graeme’s not going out that way, no matter what. He shudders and suppresses the memory of the afternoon his dad killed himself. He’s never taking that out.

Part of his brain continues to take orders, offer wan smiles and greetings and acknowledgements of ‘have a nice day’, and exchange money. The other part of his brain continues to spiral. Only now, he’s tackling the bigger things, the bigger problems he has to worry about, genuine worries, not just that shit like small talk.

The big stuff, like how his brain’s slowly getting worse without his meds. He hasn’t had a day without spiraling since… fuck. He’s not even sure anymore. He used to be able to count the days between spirals, would reward himself for beating his old record. Now he’s forgotten how long it’s been since he _hasn’t_ had one — it’s like he’s fifteen all over again, emotions and hormones all over the place, barely able to make it through a day of school.

The big stuff, like how his hours got cut back at the gas station. With the new schedule, he’s going to have to scrimp even more at the store, cut even more corners, to get by.

The big stuff, like how he’s going to have to go back to Drew if he wants to feel better. And the last time he saw Drew, the dealer had tried to push other stuff on him, because honestly, his anti-anxiety meds _are_ rather small fry. Sure, on the street, they go for a pretty penny — although cheaper than at the pharmacy with no health insurance — but Drew tried to get him to shoot up, promised it would fix all of his problems. He hadn’t, he’d gotten out of there as quickly as possible — without his meds — and now the thought of going back to Drew scares him shitless.

Because at least he’s got that part of his life together. At least he’s not on drugs. Or, well. Not illegal ones. Just ones that make his brain work, that make it possible for _him_ to work, to sleep, to function in society. The ones he’s been bending over backward to make sure he can still get for the last two years. Like, number one on the list for survival is TAKE YOUR MEDS, GRAEME.

 

The spiral gets worse when he clocks off at the Burger Joint, without work to distract him. He slides his favorite black hoodie on, his fingers jittery as he pulls out the little ponytail he’d swept his rough-textured thick brown hair back in for his shift. He fluffs it up, grumbling at it, thinking about borrowing Terrence’s clippers tonight and shaving it all off again. He wishes he could care more about it, fleetingly, before other worries swamp him. He plugs in his earbuds to try and drown them out.

It’s already raining outside when he pushes the back door open, but he flicks through his music list to find the rain sounds album anyway. Hood up, he pushes his phone and his cold fingers into the hoodie pocket and clomps through the puddles in his ugly black non-slip work shoes. Coping mechanism number 379: rain sounds. For some reason, rain sounds make him calm. Maybe it reminds him of the rain pattering down on the roof of the trailer, pinging and drowning out anything he didn’t want to hear. Maybe because sometimes, if it’s hard enough, it just sounds like static, and whatever frequency that static vibrates at makes it so his brain can’t be penetrated by invasive anxious thoughts.

He used to listen to music, once upon a time. The last few months, though, it’s basically just been the rain sounds. Shutting his brain up and zoning out is better than the spirals. Neither are a permanent solution, he knows. Spending hours a day zenned-out to rain sounds is no better than spending hours a day worrying. He still loses the hours, regardless. There’s probably stuff he could be doing with those hours, like accepting one of the invitations from his roommates to go out and dance, for once. His roommates think he’s the world’s biggest introvert. He’s not, it’s just — just that his brain is too loud to take it anywhere louder.

He has an hour break before he has to be at the gas station; 6 hours there before he gets to go home and sleep. _Ha, sleep._ Okay, before he gets to go home and curl up on his futon and let his mind spiral about … everything. He hasn’t been getting enough sleep for the last eight months or so. Even when he had them, the meds had needed adjusting; but getting a doctor to adjust them is not a thing he can afford right now. Still, the dose he’d been on is better than nothing, if _this_ is what nothing feels like.

Part of him knows that it’s gotten worse because of the withdrawal. Stopping suddenly had not been in the plan, of course, and those first few days had been the roughest he’d experienced. He’d had to take a sick day, and he’d sat in his bed, panicking for hours, heart racing, certain he wasn’t going to make it through the night.  

Even then, _even then,_ he hadn’t thought of ending it. Just making it through. Surviving. It’s slightly better, now, but it’s not _good._ It’s just...slightly less bad.

His plan for his hour break is to find a dry place and pull out the lunch he packed for himself this morning — just a sandwich and an apple, but it pleases him, the healthiness of it. He’s willing to fight for the ability to feed himself the food he wants to eat, not the food that he’s been forced to deal with his whole life. It’s one of the only things that soothes his mind these days. He knows he’s too skinny, still, but he’s doing his best.

In his ears, the rain sounds album continues to play, a virtual torrential downpour, nothing like the small spitting drops of water currently coming down from the Seattle night sky. There's even thunder in the track, rumbling in the distance. Graeme wishes they got more thunderstorms in Seattle. He likes to watch them blow up from the Sound, especially during the day. Likes that type of rain that drowns out all the sounds of the city, not this crap that just makes everything damp for days on end. Damp and cold.

He finds a hotel with an awning and sort of ducks out of the way, into the darkness at the side, pulling the sandwich out of his backpack. He hopes he looks nonchalant enough that no one will report him as they whisk inside in their fancy clothes, or their tourist gear, out of the cold. He’s not trying to be creepy, people watching. Just trying to eat his lunch before someone tells him to shoo. It’s not like he belongs here, so he’ll shoo, but he’s hoping to get half his sandwich in before that happens.

Fernando tells him that he needs to have more confidence. That if he acts like he’s supposed to be there, no one will question it. Graeme just chews his lip at the thought every time Fernando brings it up. What if he’s not supposed to be anywhere? He’s never felt that confidence — he’s never felt comfortable in his own skin, his home, his school — he’s basically worthless.

Except he’s not worthless enough to give up. He doesn’t need to survive because other people need him. He knows they don’t. He knows no one would miss him.

He needs to survive because suicide leaves behind a bigger, darker mark than anything else, and he’s not going to inflict that on anyone, either. No one will discover his body, and have the sight burned into their brain forever.

He manages to get all the way through lunch before a big, burly guard comes out and shoos him along, and by that time, he has to rush to get to the gas station on time, anyway.

The nice thing about the gas station is that the graveyard shift means he rarely has any customers. Most of the time, it’s slow enough that he can pull his latest knitting project out of his backpack and work on it. The manager doesn’t mind, as long as he’s taken care of his inventory duties, mopped the floor, and done the trash by the end of the night.

Knitting is another thing he’d learned from Mrs. McCree, in exchange for folding laundry. The school counselor had approved, saying something about how soothing knitting is, and how a hobby could help his anxiety. Graeme supposes that’s true, considering he still does it, keeps working on it, making more and more complicated things to keep his brain quiet. He scours the second-hand shops for the materials, or even for sweaters he can unravel and reknit into something else. He’ll finish a project, unravel it, and reknit it again and again until the yarn is too kinked to take out again. Sometimes, he stops by the fancy yarn shops downtown, the ones that carry local dyers, and he’ll covet, but he won’t tempt himself by going in. The colorful displays make his fingers itch to touch. Someday, he’ll walk right into one of those places like the lady from Pretty Woman did, and he’ll buy a beautiful, soft skein of yarn, and he’ll make _himself_ something. Normally his goods go to deals and exchanges. Knitted hats are a lot less messy than blow jobs, and with way less risk of STIs.

Tonight he’s working on a brioche hat that he’s hoping to exchange for some of the fresh veggies one of his neighbors gets in a CSA box. He’s nearly done by the time his shift relief comes on at 4am. Tucking back into his hoodie, pulling on the straps of his backpack, he’s calmer now. The knitting helped, as did having basically no interaction with customers for the last 6 hours. He doesn’t need his headphones to get home.

 

He makes dinner, which is actually breakfast, for Terrence and himself, tossing the comp burger and fries in the fridge for Fernando for later. Breakfast is several different ingredients cobbled together into something that’s tasty: Terrence likes to call that the Graeme Special, taking seemingly disparate or mismatched items or leftovers and making it into something new and yummy.

This time, it’s a veggie scramble with toast, utilizing some dented cans from the grocery outlet, and the last of the fresh garlic he’d bought a week or so ago. He’s just scooping up the last of his scramble onto his toast when Terrence comes in, yawning, and heading straight to the coffee maker. They grunt at each other in greeting; Terrence isn’t much of a morning person and Graeme doesn’t feel much like talking after a long day. With a quick wash of his plate, Graeme mumbles a “see you later” and shuffles off to the bathroom.

He strips and showers, unable to stand the smell of the old frying oil that clings to his skin, his hair, his clothes. He has to go to bed clean or he’ll never get to sleep. In the shower, he notices his toenail paint is chipping, and that, at least, is soothing. That means he has an excuse to fix it.

Painting his toenails has become a sort of mindfulness exercise, and it’s one of the things he loves to do before bed. Cracking open his window the tiniest bit for ventilation, he methodically cleans each nail of old polish, wiggling them happily as he goes. When they’re dry, he pulls out the bottle of deep, almost blood red. He lets himself buy a new color only when the old one is used up, so he has to choose something he really likes, but luckily, this red color looks beautiful against his skin tone. Tongue stuck between his lips, his mind goes quiet for a few precious moments as he concentrates on the polish. He sighs with happiness when he’s done, admiring his toes, wishing he could wear the color on his nails.  

The relief from his anxiety is short lived once he’s done, though. He can feel the spiral itching through his brain, waiting for him to lay down to really pounce and take advantage. In his pajamas, he goes through the small apartment, checking off his mental list. Yes, the door is locked, twice, yes, he turned off the oven, yes, he did put the hamburger in the fridge and didn’t leave it in his bag to rot, yes, the windows are all locked, too.

Check done, he stumbles back into his room, lays down on the bed, and attempts to sleep so he can do it all over again later today.


	2. Meet Alan

Mal pokes their head into Alan’s office, interrupting the string of curses currently flowing through Alan’s head as the code before him flashes an error. “You might want to grab lunch now, boss. You’ve got that meeting at 2:30.” 

Alan wrinkles his nose, checking the time. Mal had taken it on themself long ago to be the person that makes sure Alan actually eats during the day. And sure, Alan appreciates it, but he also doesn’t really have the time today to take a lunch. “I’ll grab a shake from the fridge, thanks, Mal.” 

Mal frowns at him. “You haven’t left your office all morning,” they remind him in a sing-songy voice. 

“Keeping track, huh?”

“That  _ is _ kind of my job description.” 

“This damn code—” Alan grumbles. 

Mal just sighs, and Alan knows it’s their patented Sigh of the Long-Suffering Assistant. Really, Mal is too damn good at their job, because he actually feels a spike of guilt. He watches Mal cross over to the coat rack and pull Alan’s Captain America jacket and Mariners cap down, holding them out for him. “Go clear your head, and get some actual food, and when you come back, I bet you’ll have the solution.” 

Admitting defeat, he turns the treadmill off and hops down, letting his legs readjust to the feeling of solid ground. He wobbles for a second — jeez, he really  _ was _ on here all morning, huh? — then takes the jacket and hat from Mal, bundling himself up to look more incognito. Over six feet and built like a lumberjack — fitting, for the Pacific Northwest, he supposes, especially with the carefully and sometimes not so carefully trimmed beard — it’s not exactly the easiest task in the world for Alan.

Ever since Seattle Met had featured him on the cover as the App King and Seattle’s Most Eligible Bachelor — the title of which he had  _ not _ approved —  he’s been getting recognized more and more on the street. And not for cool stuff, like from his TED talk or the GDC streams he’d led, or his charity work. No, it’s the eligible bachelor part that seems to have stuck.                                                                                                                                                                 

He checks on various projects as he walks through his office. It’s not like he’s Jeff Bezos or Bill Gates, or something; he has about twenty people working for him for the current project. He’s not the king of anything, not really. He’s just been luckier than most, and more sensible with his money, perhaps, than the other app development companies that try to make it in the market. 

Once he gets outside, okay, he has to admit Mal is right, and he shoots off a quick text to apologize and tell them so. The air is crisp and refreshing, slightly damp from the spitting rain. He heads off for his favorite burrito joint, hands in his pockets, head tipped down but still enjoying the people watching. 

“Alan!”

He cringes at the unrecognized female voice calling out to him — another bachelorette barking up the decidedly, affirmedly wrong tree? He braces himself as he turns around. 

He breathes a sigh of relief when he sees Krista Ozawa strolling up to him, arms wide. She’s practically bouncing with every step, rocking the snazzy business suit that fits her short, curvy body perfectly. Alan scoops her up into a big hug.  “What’re you doing downtown?”

“Showing off one of those new lofts down by the market. And because I’m pretty sure we’re all going to make a juicy, extremely lucrative deal,  _ cash, natch, _ I figured I’d treat myself to lunch.”

“Why don’t you let me, instead?” He holds out his arm for her to take, grinning reflexively at her. She’s practically vibrating with happiness. 

“Nope, it’s my treat, now I’m taking you with me.” She pulls on his arm, tugging them in the direction of a lunch bistro. “Do you have something more formal on underneath that jacket, or are you dressed in typical Alan?”

“What’s wrong with typical Alan?” he asks with a grin, elbowing her in the side. She gets him back just as quickly. They probably make an incredibly mismatched pair, seeing as she’s almost foot shorter than him even with the heels, but she’s one of his favorite people in the world.

“You might be leaning on urban geekster a bit too hard.” 

“I’ll have you know, I was rocking this look back when people got beat up for this kind of thing.” 

“That’s exactly what a geekster would say.”

“Okay, I’m probably going to regret asking, but ‘geekster?’”

“Geek-hipster. Geekster.” 

Alan snorts. “I’ve missed you, Kris.”

“I know, I know, I haven’t been able to get to  _ any _ events in a month. Life’s been crazy, and I’m kind of really feeling it, you know? Like this itch all over. I haven’t done a scene in  _ forever.” _

Krista is from the  _ other _ part of his life, one of the friends he’s made in the Seattle kink scene over the last few years. Even with his new notoriety, there’s still an enforced anonymity with kink events. Attendees might go to an event to be seen, but not by  _ outsiders.  _ There’s a strong sense of community, a sense of kinship he has with people like Krista. In his increasingly lonely and isolated world, his kink friends are the ones he’s been able to keep up. 

“I’m sure Barbie is feeling neglected.” Unlike Alan, Krista likes to use an alternate identity for the scene. 

Krista sighs regretfully. “Barbie is about to crawl out of Krista’s skin and drag herself to an event.”

“Hey, there’s a munch tonight, if you want to go. That 24-hour breakfast place over on Cedar.” 

She pushes the door open for them and leaves her name with the host. “Oo, I do love their waffles.” She pokes him in the stomach as they wait for a table. “What have you been up to?”

Alan shrugs. “You know, same old, same old.” 

“Alan, your net worth is out of this world. I would  _ love _ to know what ‘same old, same old’ is for you. Jetting to Phuket? Spending the weekend in Aspen? Tell me something exotic, spice up my life a little.” 

He’s saved from answering by the host showing them to their table. Krista seems to have forgotten her query anyway, launching into a story about one of her clients that has Alan busting out laughing. From there, Krista talks about a rope technique she wants to try, first on herself, because she’s like that, she likes to know what it feels like from all sides of a scene, and then on someone else. 

He’s relieved that she doesn’t bring the ‘same old, same old’ discussion back up — because decidedly, his life is _boring._ And it’s not like it’s boring in a bad way. He likes the challenge of his work. He loves the Sunday brunch his family has down in Kent every week. He enjoys the yoga he picked up a few years back to stop this big Garry body from going to fat — side benefit, he can haul his subs around. He gets to go home every night and cuddle up with his cats and work on his apps and watch tv and eat take out. And on the weekends, he goes to munches and kink events and loses himself in Domming someone else for a little while. It’s a good routine, a good life. Just makes for boring talk, he justifies to himself. And maybe he’s been going to more events recently, to avoid another night spent alone at home. And maybe the scenes he’s been doing with some of his favorite subs haven’t been...as satisfying recently. Maybe. 

The thought that he’s bone-crushingly lonely is one that he pushes aside. 

 

Despite that depressing note, Alan enjoys his time with Krista, kissing her lightly on the cheek as they part on the sidewalk, her heading off to her car, him whistling as he walks back to his office building. Halfway back, he realizes exactly what he’d mis-sequenced in the code, and the ‘Eureka!’ moment has him almost running back to the office with excitement. 

He’s typing his notes rapidly in his phone as he walks off the elevator and into the office, and bumps directly into Mal. “Whoops, sorry, I need to stop texting and driving.” 

“Texting your mom about lunch?” Mal has a grin on their face. 

Alan is immediately suspicious. “No… why?” He frowns at Mal, then looks down so he can finish typing out his thought before he loses it. 

Mal thrusts their phone over the top of his, so he can’t miss the bold headline, _**“Bachelor no more?”**_

Alan narrows his eyes and begins to thumb through. There’s a pic of him kissing Krista’s cheek on the street, as well as of their ‘intimate bistro lunch’. 

“This is really getting out of fucking hand,” Alan grumbles. “I should probably give Krista a heads up—” 

He’s cut off by Mal’s phone dinging, and they snatch it back. “I already did,” they snicker. “I think she just got it, she must have been driving.” They flip it back around to show Krista’s reaction, which is just a gif of someone laughing hysterically. 

“Well I’m glad  _ someone _ is amused. My mom is going to—” 

Once again, he’s interrupted, this time by his phone lighting up with his mom and dad’s picture. He sighs, loudly, before strolling towards his office and shutting the door. “Hey, Mom. What’s up?” 

“Wouldn’t it just be easier if you were out?”

“I’m great, Mom, thanks for asking.” 

“Oh, honey, I’m not trying to badger you. I just hate to see these articles. This is  _ Washington _ for goodness sake, why would these people be so heteronormative?”

“You really don’t need to have a Google alert set up for my name. We see each other every Sunday.” 

“But then how will I know when you win some fancy schmancy award I can brag to the girls about, Mr. Humble?” 

“I mean, you could wait until I tell you, like norm—”

“Leonard Garry, if you call me normal—”

“If you call me  _ Leonard—” _

“Hi, son!” His dad’s voice interrupts brightly, and intentionally, in the background. 

“Oh, I’m on speaker, huh?”

“Yep,” his dad answers glibly. 

Coming out to his liberal parents, who had grown up at just enough of the edge of the hippie era for it to have lasting effects,  _ that _ had been easy. He’d told his parents he was gay in 7th grade, and they’d supported him like champs. 

“You know how the tech industry is,” Alan says softly. “Even here in Seattle.” 

His mom grumbles, and Alan tries not to think about how his own grumble sounds almost exactly like hers. “Agreed,” he says, because it’s easier than the truth. 

The truth being: Alan has no idea what the fuck label fits him. And as much as he knows he shouldn’t care, Alan is a label guy. His digital filing system is immaculate. Well-organized and categorized bookshelves make him drool. He once created a card catalog system for his dad’s extensive VHS collection. 

He’d known he liked boys all the way back in elementary school. But when he got older, and  _ sex _ started entering the picture… That’s when things had gotten complicated. Where all the boys had talked about how much sex they were either having or wanted to have, Alan had been… just fine, thanks. Up until he’d been taken to a kink event by a former college boyfriend, he hadn’t been sure he would like _anything_ about the act of sex. 

Alan can count on one hand the amount of times since high school that’s he’s been sexually attracted to someone. It  _ does _ happen, but it’s rare, and it’s only happened more often since he got into kink. 

The thing is, he really, really likes getting other people off. It doesn’t have to be men, even. He loves bringing a sub to their knees and coaxing forth every ounce of pleasure from their body until they’re shattered, and then he gets to pick up the pieces and put them back together for aftercare. Rarely, very rarely, will he use his own dick for penetration. Most of the time he’s not even hard. 

So, homoromantic, and as far as sexuality… well, anyone’s guess is as good as Alan’s. It’s frustratingly unlabelable, and because of that, Alan just sticks with “gay” for most people, and “ace” for anyone he won’t have to explain asexuality to. They’re good enough blanket terms, he tells himself, over and over, like his therapist has said a billion times. 

“Listen, guys, I love you, and I'll see you in a few days. I really, really need to prep for this meeting I’ve got in — shit — twenty minutes.” 

He gets a reluctant ‘I love you’ and a sigh from his mom, and a ‘love you, go get ‘em tiger’ from his dad.


	3. Impact: Graeme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graeme and Alan meet under the unfortunate circumstance of a car accident.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said I was going to update weekends - let's just go with, I'm going to probably ALSO update weekends.
> 
> Also, I forgot to add the tag "slow burn" - the romance, actually, less of a slow burn, but the sex is slower to get to, just FYI.

**** “You look tired, Graeme-cracker.” 

“I’m fine,” Graeme answers, forcing a smile on his face as he pulls off his hoodie. “Drive-thru or up front for me today, Jer?”

“I’ve got you training Greg on drive-thru today.” 

_ Oh. Joy. _

Drive-thru, where they can’t see your face, so it’s especially dehumanizing, and training, which is just frustrating, because how many of these high schoolers has he trained already? How many will he train by the time he’s 60 and keels over from a heart attack onto the grill? And why does he even worry about getting out of here, anyway? He should just accept that he’s going to be here forever. It’s not like he’s got enough smarts or skills to get another job or go back to school or something. He laughs at himself inwardly. Like he’d be able to make it through college, with how fucked up his brain is. No fucking way. 

 

The combination of the drive-thru and training leaves Graeme exhausted and shuffling toward the Quix-Stop during his lunch hour. It’s raining harder today, and he’s colder, like maybe he’s coming down with something, and he  _ can’t _ afford to come down with something, so his body’s just going to have to deal. His pay already took a hit taking time off to recover from the withdrawal symptoms. But of course that thought spirals into another worry, and another, until he’s nauseated, so sure everything is going to come crashing down around him tomorrow, so sure he’s not going to be able to make this work. 

He shoves the ear buds into his ears and pulls his hood down low to block some of the rain. Quickens his pace so that he can try to burn off some of the anxiety before he gets to work; there’s no way he’s stopping to eat, not when he would just throw it all back up. If someone forced him to choose his least favorite anxiety symptom, it would be nausea. There was a time in 10th grade where he could barely eat for fear of not keeping it down. He doesn’t want to get that bad again. He’ll force himself to eat something later, at the Quix-Stop. 

He glances up to cross the street, confident he can go, but apparently he glances too quickly, because just as he’s reaching the other side, his mind a tangle of worries, he goes flying and his side is on fire with pain. 

He lets out a grunt, stunned, trying to figure out what the hell just happened, did he really — really just get  _ hit? _ By a  _ car? _

“Oh God, don’t move, don’t try to move, okay?” 

A guy, big and broad, comes into his blurry field of vision, and Graeme blinks his eyes. Blurry because rain, he thinks. But maybe he hit his head? Oh Christ, what if he has a concussion? His breath shortens and his heart speeds up, and adrenaline spikes painfully through his veins like an electric shock: all the symptoms of an oncoming panic attack. It doesn’t help that his anxiety was already heightened before the...accident?

The guy kneels beside him. “Call 911,” he yells over his shoulder. 

“Dude, he’s wearing black, I didn’t see him, I swear!” 

If Graeme weren’t so hurt, he might feel kinship to the other guy, who is clearly freaking out as well.

_ “Call 911.”  _ The voice is more commanding this time, and Graeme thinks he hears feet scramble. Graeme sure would, if that voice had been directed at him. The man didn’t raise his voice, instead it went all quiet and authoritative. Nice trick. 

“Can I check you? I’m trained in first aid, but I’ve never had to use it, ah, God, I’m so sorry we hit you.” 

“You hit me?”

“Well, the Uber driver did.” 

“I n—n—” Graeme swallows against his panic, tries to take a deep breath. “I n—need to get up.” He sort of pushes the man back, trying to find leverage for his hands, even as he winces in pain. 

“What? No, you’re going to the hospital. What’s your name?”

“I ha—have to get to work. Can’t m—m—miss.” He manages to roll over, clutching at his side, head swimming, his heart pounding in his ears. Oh, how he hates that sound, the sound of his out-of-control heart galloping in his head. It means he’s losing it, losing his grip, and he’s going to remain lost for awhile if he doesn’t get it calmed down. 

The pavement is wet beneath his fingers, chilling them. He focuses on the rough texture of the road to try and refocus away from the panic and the pain. It works, but only marginally. His head feels like it’s swimming. Every breath feels like he’s being stabbed. He pushes a hand to his side, and the sudden pain sharpens his brain, but shocks a gasp out of him that hurts like hell.  _ Shit shit shit shit— _

“I’m Alan, and I’d like to help you. You need to lay down.” Alan’s voice turns away. “Hey, do you have any blankets in that thing?”

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, I can’t afford this,” the Uber driver babbles. 

_You_ _can’t afford this?_ Graeme thinks. 

“He’s wearing black, he came out of nowhere, I’m not to blame!”

“Shut up,” Alan says, using that commanding voice again, and the Uber driver stops immediately. 

In all the commotion, Graeme has managed to make his way to his hands and knees, and he’s clenching his teeth, trying to get the energy, the resolve, the  _ something, _ to get to his feet. He can do this. He just has to get up, and walk to work, and then he can sit down for six hours, ask the next shift to run the inventory, and hope that kind of slacking doesn’t get him fired. He can go to the walk-in after work if he’s still hurting. He grits his teeth, but he can’t find the energy to push past the pain and stand. 

A warm, gloved hand slides tentatively, but comfortingly, over his back, and then Alan’s voice is in his ear. “I’m going to move you back down, okay?” The voice is quiet, soothing. “We’re going to sit, and call your work, and get everything figured out, okay?”

The voice makes him feel like he has a choice when he really doesn’t. He whimpers, not sure if it’s out loud or in his head, and lets Alan move him. He’s being cradled in Alan’s lap, now. Despite his overwhelming size, Alan is gentle as he holds him there. Maybe Alan thinks that if he lets him go he’ll try to get away again.

“What’s your name?” he asks again softly. 

“Gr—gr—graeme.” 

“It’s going to be okay, Graeme. Where do you hurt the most?”

The pain is brightest at his hip, and across his chest, and he mumbles that as his answer, but then he thinks he hears sirens, and he clutches at the collar of Alan’s fine black wool jacket. “I can’t go in the ambulance,” he manages without stuttering. 

“You have to go to the ER.” 

“Take me to the walk-in, please, I can’t afford an ambulance, I can’t afford the ER.  _ Please.” _ The tears are coming, now, he can hear them in his own voice. He works up the last of his strength — God, the breath needed to talk, it hurts  _ so _ much —  _ “Please, Alan.” _

“I don’t think the walk-in is open right now, Graeme—”

Graeme pushes back, trying to pull away. “Then I’ll go tomorrow morning, just—” 

The walk-in clinic charges a base fee of $150, plus whatever x-rays and other exams that need to be done. Luckily, (ha?), he didn’t buy his meds last month because Drew scared him too much, so he has some money stashed away. He’ll still probably have to go on a payment plan, like that one time he did when he was 18 and needed antibiotics for that really bad sinus infection. It’ll mean being a little more creative with food for the next few months, and also he’ll probably have to forgo his annual birthday Thunderhawks game next month, but that’s just an indulgence anyway, it’s not like he needs to go see hockey to survive, or anything. 

As the sirens get closer, Graeme tries to push away from Alan’s arms harder, and Alan just — just continues to hold him, talking to him in that soothing voice, telling him it’s going to be okay, to calm down. 

_ Ha! _ Like telling someone to calm down ever worked in the entire history of humanity. 

Except then Alan says something that  _ does _ make his mind calm, or at least distracts him for a second. “I’ll pay.” 

Graeme stops struggling. “Wha—what?”

“I’ll pay whatever the ambulance costs, whatever the ER fees are, I’ll pay. The whole thing. I hit you.” 

Behind Alan, the Uber driver is nodding eagerly. “Yes, yes, I’ll help pay, too, and then you won’t sue me?”

Graeme nods, because that sounds like a deal, and deals are how you survive. “Yeah, sure, dude, whatever.” 

Alan’s brow furrows. “That’s not—” 

He’s interrupted by the ambulance pulling up and the EMTs piling out, firing off questions too rapidly for Graeme to follow. Alan lays him down gently on a stabilizer, and the EMTs shine lights in his eyes and call out things like “Pulse is high but thready, treat for shock,” and “What’s your pain level at, sir?”

Graeme isn’t quite sure how to answer that question.

“Which hospital are you taking him to?” Alan breaks in, interrupting Graeme’s pained thinking process.

“U-Dub,” one of them answers, and Graeme watches Alan relay that info to the Uber driver. 

“Wait,” Graeme calls, but it’s muffled by the oxygen mask. “Wait, wait!” He tugs on the EMT’s sleeve to get his attention, and the mask is removed. “Alan, my work—” 

“Who can I call?” 

Relief floods him, just for a moment, when he doesn’t have to explain everything to Alan because Alan’s obviously quick on the uptake. “The Quix-Stop a couple of blocks from here. Please tell them I’ll be back as soon as I can tonight.” 

“Kid, you’re probably not getting out of the ER before tomorrow,” the EMT who’d helped with his mask says. 

Alan looks similarly skeptical, but promises to call as Graeme is bundled into the ambulance. 

 

“You’re lucky, kid,” the ER doctor says with some amusement gracing her lips. 

“Don’t feel lucky,” Graeme mumbles, trying not to feel resentful about being called a kid twice in as many hours. They gave him something for the pain that makes his brain unpleasantly floaty, like he can’t quite grasp onto a thought to actually think anything through. 

“The car must have been going at a low speed. Nothing broken in the hip, but you’re going to have a hell of a bruise, and three broken ribs, but no punctured organs.” She looks up from his chart. “I’m going to keep you here for a few more hours, just for observation, and to help you come down from the panic attack and continue to watch for shock, but you should be home by noon. Lucky,” she says again with a smile. 

“I guess.” He feels like he’s been sitting in this hospital room alone forever. 

“Is there anyone out there waiting for you that you want the nurses to send back?”

Graeme shakes his head and closes his eyes, feeling the blood pressure cuff start to fill and compress again automatically on his arm. 


	4. Impact: Alan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The car accident from Alan's POV

The munch beats back the loneliness fairly effectively, especially when Krista and Caden show up. They’re great company separately, but together they’re entertaining as hell, and Alan’s sides hurt from laughing, probably deepening those crow’s feet he’s always diligently ignoring in the morning mirror.

He’d sent his valet,Hendrick, off when he got to the restaurant, so he jokes with Krista and Caden as they keep him company waiting for his Uber. They’re headed back to her place, for that scene she’s been craving, Alan’s fairly sure. They’re experienced partners, and Alan’s happy it worked out for them. He would send them off to have their fun — Krista, well, Barbie, rather, is already whispering suggestive comments in Caden’s ear that have the sub blushing — but he just...just doesn’t want to be alone quite yet.

When they’ve tucked him in his car, he pulls out his phone and goes into default Alan-alone mode, looking through his emails at project reports and typing responses back to his team. He barely pays attention to the driver, who’s singing along with the radio music and tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.

He’s looking up absently, trying to think of a politically correct way to phrase the criticism he needs to give his employee, when it’s like all time slows down as he sees the accident happen. It’s like his mind processes the whole thing at half-speed — there’s a person in the crosswalk — the driver isn’t slowing down — the crossing person doesn’t see them — the Uber looks like it’s going to take a California stop on the corner — Alan opens his mouth, a half-shouted warning as the car strikes the walker, the energy transfer making the pedestrian fly across the pavement.

Before he can think of saying anything else, he’s ripping off his seat belt and scrambling out of the car. He keeps up with first aid/CPR training — once, in high school, one of his teachers had collapsed in the middle of a lecture, and the CPR-trained parapro had managed to keep him alive until the ambulance could come. That kind of thing leaves an impact on a kid. Plus, the training is a benefit for Domming and being a dungeon monitor.

For a split second, as he sees the body, lying crumpled on the street, he hesitates, and something deep inside him is triggered, but he pushes past it and keeps going.

“Call 911,” he yells over his shoulder as he skids to his knees — the sting of the asphalt through his slacks barely registering — and begins to visually check the person over. It’s a young man, face pale in the streetlights, and drawn with pain.

The driver is making infuriating excuses, but Alan finally convinces him — using his Dom voice — to call 911. The victim is even more distressing, confused, trying to get up and walk away like he hasn’t just been in a car accident, mumbling about how he can’t be late to his job.

He’s clutching at his ribs, can’t stand, and Alan’s gradually able to coax him — Graeme, he learns eventually — back down and into his lap, which is unexpected. But if Alan knows anything, it’s how to provide comfort to a hurting body. He holds Graeme gently, trying to calm him, trying to be the best he can.

It’s not until the ambulance drives away that Alan goes back to that moment, seeing Graeme crumpled up on the ground, not sure if he was alive or dead, that Alan realizes why he’d hesitated for the barest of seconds.

Because he’d looked like Tommy, hadn’t he?

Shaky, feeling a little sick, he turns to the Uber driver. “We’re going to U-Dub, then.”

 

Alan closes his eyes as he listens to the tinny ring on the other side of the line. He’s resting his head against the wall of the ER waiting room, having found a quieter corner to talk.

He recognizes this jittery feeling, the aftermath of adrenaline and the shock of the memory of Tommy’s death shoved straight in his face. If he’d been doing a scene, this would be drop. Maybe it’s not so different, an accident and a scene, except he doesn’t have pleasant memories of a lovely scene, or an understanding sub, to fall back on.

“Alan? What’s wrong?”

What he does have, he thinks, with an almost relieved sigh, is an understanding sister. “Sam. Hey. I’m okay. I just— I know it’s the middle of the night, but can you talk for a bit?”

“Yeah, of course, kiddo.” He hears her mumble to her husband, Ricardo, that everything’s fine. There’s some rustling, and in his head, he imagines her shuffling through the house, maybe going into the living room and settling on the couch with a blanket thrown over herself.

He hasn’t had to call Sam in awhile. Everything’s been on a pretty even keel for him recently. He makes a mental note to set up an appointment with his therapist Clarissa, too.

“What’s up, bro?” As expected, she still sounds sleepy and comfortable.

Quietly, he tells her about the accident, answering all the questions he can. “His work sounded so pissed, Sam. I don’t — I don’t know if he’ll have a job there still.”

“Alan, honey, you know what I’m going to say, right?”

He does, is the thing. This is not the first time his hero complex has gotten him in a situation like this. “I don’t need to rescue everyone.”

“You say it more often, you might start to believe it, you know.” There’s a bit of amusement in Sam’s voice.

“But—” He cuts himself off, taking a deep, centering breath.

“Yeah?” Sam asks, into the silence.

“He reminds me of Tommy.”

“Oh, babe.”

“Not in looks, you know? Like, Graeme has this kind of curly brown hair, and gray eyes, and he’s kind of small — too small. But when I saw him there, on the road, it reminded me of— of that final picture.”

“You should come stay with us for the weekend,” Sam replies spontaneously.

“I can’t, I have—”

“C’mon, you need a sister hug, I can tell. You can take the kids to the park, they’ve been going crazy because of the rain all week.”

It makes Alan laugh a little. “I don’t want to abandon Graeme here, but I’ll think about it.”

“Okay, well, I’m guessing this means we won’t see you Sunday for brunch, right?"

“Yeah, I’m not sure. I’ll text you tomorrow and let you know.”

Sam yawns out a tired “Okay.”

Alan laughs again. “Okay, I’m going to let you go, since you have to be up obscenely early anyway. And I need to go see who I can bribe for some information. I love you, Sam.”

“I love _you,_ honey buns.”

“Gross,” Alan replies automatically, making Sam laugh as she hangs up.

He lets himself take a few moments to reassess. Calling Sam seems to have worked for the most part. With a renewed burst of energy, he pastes on his most charming smile, and sets out to find out, well, anything really.

 

Seattle’s Most Eligible Bachelor can’t break privacy laws, no matter how charming. However, he can, apparently, ask to wait in Graeme’s room with him rather than the emergency room. Graeme’s asleep when he arrives. The nurse can’t share any details with him, so he doesn’t actually know how long Graeme is going to be sleeping, if he’s been medicated to sleep for hours, or what.

Alan decides to wait it out, anyway. Graeme doesn’t deserve to wake up alone in a scary hospital room. And okay, so maybe only Alan dislikes these places, he doesn’t know Graeme’s preference, but _he_ would want someone here.

Tommy hadn’t gotten as far as a hospital, but Alan keeps seeing him in Graeme’s tired face anyway. That too-skinny, shuttered look that Alan had grown way too used to seeing on Tommy. “I’m going to help him, Tommy,” he vows, his whispered words accompanying the steady beep of Graeme’s heart monitor.

His only reply silence, Alan pulls out his phone and gets to work again.

 

“Alan?”

Alan jumps a little at the scratchy voice. Somehow he’d gotten used to all of the monitors doing their thing, and Graeme’s voice sounds out of place. He thrusts his phone into his jacket pocket and scoots his chair a little closer to Graeme. “Hey, uh. Hey. How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a fucking car,” Graeme grumbles, coughing a little, then wincing. He manages the tiniest of smiles at Alan, though, and Alan’s heart flops in his chest. _Oh, hey._

Alan smiles back, his grin broad. “Keep that up, I’ve heard sarcasm is the best remedy for whatever ails you, smartass.”

He worries he might have gone too far with the epithet but Graeme’s lips twitch again. “I’m fine, like you said I’d be. A-okay." He lifts his left hand, the one not encumbered with an IV, to try and make the ‘okay’ hand signal, but mostly fails and lets it drop again. "Ah, crap, the pain meds are making me loopy, I hate that.”

“It’s okay, I won’t use anything you say against you, I promise.” Alan clasps his hands to keep himself from touching Graeme without permission. “So, uh, no one would tell me how badly you got hurt, or anything. HIPAA, et cetera. But they let me back here. I may have begged.”

Graeme gives him another little smile. Christ, there is something majorly appealing about getting Graeme to smile. “I’m lucky, the doctor said. Broken ribs. Bruised hip.” He waves a hand in the air as if this is all nothing, but Alan notices the flicker of worry on his face. “I need to get off these meds, I can’t be loopy at work.”

Alan frowns. “I don’t think you’re going to be working—”

He’s interrupted by the ER doctor swinging back the curtain and walking over to check his charts. She frowns a little at Alan, so Alan uses his best “Hi, I’m harmless and charming” smile on her. “It’s okay,” Graeme rasps. “He’s the money guy.”

Right. That _is_ why he’s here, he promised to pay. Graeme’s reassurance gets the doctor to nod, though. “I’m very pleased with your progress, Graeme,” she says. “We’re ready to talk about discharging. Once we get you off of the IV, you’re going to start feeling it all again, unfortunately.” She places a prescription down on his bedside table. “Codeine, make sure not to operate any heavy machinery, like a car or a forklift or the monorail or something while you’re on them. Take it as needed for the pain, tapering off over a few days.”

“It’s okay, I won’t need it,” Graeme says, sliding the paper back toward her. “They make my head feel funny. I’ll take ibuprofen.”

She frowns at him and Alan wants to do the same. He sits up a little straighter. “Graeme, if you—”

“Need my head clear to work. And walking to and from work. Gotta keep my guard up.” Graeme’s voice is insistent, and heartbreaking.

The doctor looks over at Alan, like she thinks he can help convince Graeme he needs pain meds, before turning back to Graeme. “Where do you work?”

“The Burger Joint, and Quix-Stop.”

She frowns harder. “Graeme, you’re lucky — and by the way, still not in the clear — that you don’t have a collapsed lung. We can’t _do_ anything medically for ribs to get them to heal faster except manage your pain. Ibuprofen is fine, I’ll write you up for prescription strength, but if your jobs involve a lot of pushing, pulling, or lifting of heavy objects, or hell, even bending over a counter putting burgers together, you could injure yourself further. You could wind up with a puncture, or require surgery, if you push this. You were _hit by a car,_ Graeme. This isn’t something you just blithely walk away from.”

The words ‘collapsed lung’ reverberate through Alan’s brain, and he wishes he could take Graeme’s hand. He’s distracted, though, as Graeme’s heart monitor starts pinging more quickly. His chest seems to be rising and falling faster, too.

“I can’t miss work, I can’t afford to miss it,” Graeme explains, his voice frantic, his heart monitor really beeping now.

 _“At the very least,”_ the doctor says softly, “you need to take a week. I’m going to write you a note for three, though, and I’d take advantage of that.”

“I don’t have that many hours accumulated. I don’t have _any_ at the Quix-Stop, they don’t—” He cuts himself off, like maybe he doesn’t want to get his employer in trouble and jeopardize his job. Alan’s fists clench in his lap involuntarily. Graeme’s monitor is still ping-ping-pinging away, and it looks likes it’s becoming harder for him to breathe. It takes no brainpower to see how desperate Graeme’s situation is.

Finally, Alan gives himself permission to take Graeme’s hand, his thumb rubbing the inside of Graeme’s wrist where it won’t disturb the IV. “Is this okay?” Graeme’s nod is stilted, but visible. Alan keeps comforting him. “We’ll work it out, buddy. It’ll be okay.” He keeps murmuring in that same soothing voice, the one he uses for aftercare, as Graeme starts to calm. He reaches up to wipe away a tear that Graeme looks surprised at having shed. Gradually, the heart monitor returns to normal.

“Do you often have panic attacks?” the doctor asks quietly, looking down at Graeme as if daring him to lie.

He doesn’t answer, his eyes sliding away. Alan’s stomach twists with concern.

“There are several therapists on campus that deal with anxiety. You’d be surprised how prevalent an issue it is.” Her lips quirk up, but Graeme doesn’t look amused, just shaking his head. “Well, before we discharge you, we need to go over care for the next few days.”

Graeme meets his eyes. He looks unsure, nervous and scared of the future. Alan wants to do anything he can to alleviate that. He rubs over Graeme’s pulse point again, and tries a comforting smile.


	5. Getting Discharged - Graeme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graeme's discharged from the hospital but faces problems because of his injuries; Alan wants to help, but Graeme is skeptical.

Getting discharged is a blurry process that saps whatever energy Graeme has reserved by being in a bed the last eight hours. There are lots of stern instructions, given to both him and Alan, as if Alan would have anything to do with his recovery. Mostly the instructions cover icing his ribs every single hour he’s awake, being just the right amount of active — “You’re not on bedrest, but you won’t be able to do what you’re used to, either.” — and doing these breathing exercises where he hugs a pillow to his chest to make sure he doesn’t get a collapsed lung. He listens intently at that, and he notices Alan does, too. Probably anyone would take the words ‘collapsed lung’ seriously.

He doesn’t take the codeine prescription, because he has to work, there’s no way around it. The Quix-Stop job had been competitive — there are thousands of students in the U district looking for an easy minimum wage job that basically pays them for study time. His manager can afford to be picky, and he’s going to pick someone out of the huge pile of apps over waiting for Graeme to get back. So his manager had told him, with no preamble, just an hour ago when Graeme had called to check in. At least the Burger Joint is honoring his sick leave.

Without the Quix-Stop job, even with his deals with his roommates, he won’t be able to afford rent _and_ food _and_ meds. Of course, that’s _if_ he works up the courage to call Drew again and deal with him. Considering how bad the spirals have been getting, he doesn’t really have any other options. He needs to be functioning to be able to work. He needs to work to afford anything.

_Let’s see, have a home, have food, or a have a working brain. What a fucking choice._

He’s so far into spiraling about work and money that he doesn’t even realize he’s being tucked into the back of a town car, not a taxi or an Uber. He struggles for a second against Alan’s hold, pushing himself back up to a standing position and taking a few steps back. Despite looking like someone who plays for the Seahawks, Alan lets him go right away, looking confused. _Fuck._ Graeme’s fairly sure he must have already agreed to something while he was zoned out. That happens sometimes. He coughs, trying not to look too awkward. “Where— um. Where are we going?”

Alan reaches out, does that thing where he rubs his thumb over Graeme’s wrist, like he’s quieting a wild animal. “We can drive you home, save you the time waiting, or, of course, I can pay for a taxi if that makes you more comfortable,” he answers in what Graeme has already come to know as his soothing, ‘let’s be reasonable’ voice. Between the voice and the thumb rubbing over his pulse point, it’s working for Graeme. He feels his heart rate lower.

“That— that sounds good, actually.” Graeme mumbles, letting himself be helped in again. There’s a pinching in his chest as he bends down to get into the car, but the level of pain isn’t quite back at its earlier blinding pulse yet — the ER meds are still swimming through his system. Still, he’s exhausted, mentally and physically. “Just, you better not be a serial killer or anything. I may look weak, but I can assure you, I’m a survivor.”

The older man with wiry gray hair in the front seat laughs. “I like him, Alan. Don’t worry about Alan, my man. He is most definitely not a serial killer, and I am most definitely not paid extremely well to say that.”

“Thanks so much, Hendrick, really, you’re extremely helpful,” Alan responds dryly. “Graeme, meet Hendrick, Hendrick, Graeme Webster.” He smiles apologetically at Graeme. “Sorry, not a serial killer, I just saw your last name on some of the paperwork.”

“Pleased to meet you,” the jovial driver replies. “Sorry ‘bout the circumstances. Where are we headed?”

“If—” Graeme lets out a breath as he eases back into the seat, letting his body relax. “If you have a driver, why were you in an Uber last night?”

“An excellent question.” Hendrick arches a brow into the rearview. “If you hadn’t sent me off, Mr. Garry, none of this would have happened.”

“And if I hadn’t sent you off, Cecilia would have hunted me down personally for making you late for your anniversary dinner,” Alan returns easily. He winks at Graeme. “He only calls me Mr. Garry because he knows it annoys me.”

“I’ll remember that,” Graeme says on a breath.

“Hell, Graeme?” Hendrick’s eyes turn to his.

“Yeah?”

Hendrick grins. “If Mr. Garry attacks you back there, I’ll stop this car and defend your ass. I like you, man.”

“Well, gee, mother Hen, thanks for your loyalty.”

Graeme gives a breathless little laugh at Alan’s sarcasm, letting his head fall back onto the car seat. It hurts to laugh, but the motion will also keep his lung from collapsing, the doctor told him, so he lets himself.

“That’s the thing, Alan,” Hendrick says, sounding serious now. “Loyalty that can be bought with money is only loyalty that can be bought by someone else.” He gives the backseat a warm smile. Graeme picks up a faint blush of pleasure on Alan’s cheeks.

Something blooms in his heart. He’s fairly sure it’s jealousy at the obviously deep friendship the two men have. He lets his eyes close as he tries to redirect the thought.

“Let’s get you home, huh? Where can Hendrick and I take you?”

Graeme rattles off his address tiredly.

“You can lean on my shoulder if you want, for the ride. I don’t mind.” Alan’s voice is right in his ear, whispering softly. The sound buzzes a little in Graeme’s brain, and it takes him a second to interpret it.

He’s too tired, too on the edge of pain, to turn him down. He leans his head down on Alan’s shoulder, feels the strength of it underneath his cheek, and falls asleep.

 

When he wakes, the town car has pulled up in front of his rundown, decrepit apartment building. Graeme’s fairly sure he could put a mortgage down on a house in Arkansas for cheaper than he pays for his closet-sized room, but that amount of anxiety in a major move like that is exhausting just to think about.

“What floor do you live on?” Alan asks, looking dubiously out the window. Graeme doesn’t blame him, necessarily; he probably doesn’t slum it all that often. Maybe ever. Someone who can afford a town car, and a driver, and, oh, right, to pay for an ambulance bill out of pocket — yeah, Alan probably hasn’t seen this side of Seattle.

“Fifth,” Graeme replies, rubbing at his eyes, already dreading the climb.

“Working elevator?”

Graeme snorts, then gets cut off when he leans down to grab his bag of effects from the hospital and pain shoots through him. Alan reaches down and picks it up for him.

“Graeme, you can’t walk up five flights of stairs in your condition.”

“What other choice do I have?” he grumbles back, frustrated with Alan and whatever rich alternate reality he apparently lives in.

“You heard what the doctor said. _Collapsed lung,_ Graeme. And your hip— Oh!” Alan digs into his messenger bag, pulls out a wad of cash, and Graeme’s eyes go wide.

“Do you just— carry all that around with you all the time?” Graeme asks, shocked. The only time he carries so much cash is if he’s on his way to see his dealer.

“No, this is from the driver. The Uber driver. I got his information, too, in case you wanted to press charges.” Alan taps a note rubber banded around the cash. “You could use the cash, though, for a hotel, for a little bit. Someplace where you wouldn’t have to climb the stairs.” He presses it into Graeme’s hand.

Graeme looks down at it, a little dumbfounded. He’s really too tired to make this decision, but— “Thanks for getting it for me. I won’t press charges, a deal is a deal.” He thumbs through it. Three hundred and change. “This might make up for my gas station hours for a little bit.”

“You— you aren’t going to use it on a hotel?”

“Why would I go to a hotel? I have a perfectly fine place to live.”

Alan chews his lip. “Do you live alone? Who’s going to take care of you? You can’t even lift grocery bags at the store for another week. Do you have enough food?”

With each question, Graeme’s heart begins to quicken.

“Uh, Alan—” Hendrick breaks in, and Alan goes red, probably noticing Graeme’s face.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, looking seriously contrite.

“It’s okay,” Graeme says back, even though it’s not. He rubs his sweaty palms over his jeans. “It’s just that—” His breath is coming faster. “I have _no idea_ how the fuck I’m going to do any of that, Alan. The _thought_ of climbing up the stairs— and getting groceries— and my roommates won’t—” His breath hitches painfully, and he glances at Hendrick, blushing, on the verge of a teary breakdown.

“Hendrick, can you give us a moment?”

“Sure thing, boss.” He turns the car off and is out before Graeme really notices.

“So—sorry,” Graeme chokes, trying to wipe at his tears. “Sorry, normally I’m be—better than this. Normally I’m not…”

“It’s an anxiety thing, right? I’m sorry, Graeme. I just — I don’t know. I like taking care of people. I want to make sure you’re okay. I don’t want to leave you when I don’t know if you’re going to be okay or not.”

“I can’t afford this,” Graeme whispers. “I can’t afford to take the time off, I can’t afford to be hurting, I can’t— it was already falling apart, I can’t add this.”

“What was already falling apart?” Alan’s voice is soft, soothing.

“My life.”

Gently, Alan’s hand covers his as it swipes continually over his jeans. He links their fingers. “You could come stay with me. I have an elevator, and I...well, I probably don’t have food, but we can go to the store and get some, you can just point out what you want, and I can carry it all. Then you don’t have to spend this money on a hotel, but you don’t have to go up there, either.”

“Why are you doing this for me? What do you want from me? Is it— _sex?”_ He whispers the last part, and Alan’s eyes go wide.

“Uh—”

Graeme’s cheeks flame. “I’m not a sex worker. Though technically, I kind of have been, before.”

“No, I didn’t think—”

“I can cook, and clean, and knit, but I’m not going to exchange blow jobs for a place to stay. I’m not even sure if I can get on my knees right now anyway—”

“No, Graeme, God, I’m ace, I mean, asexual, I—” Alan blushes, and looks away. “Do you know what that means?”

Graeme shakes his head, surprised at Alan’s outburst.

“I don’t experience sexual attraction, or, well—” Alan waves a hand, as if it doesn’t matter. “It’s complicated. I don’t want sex from you in exchange for a place to stay, or food, or any of this, okay?”

“So what’s in it for you?”

Alan’s eyes meet his. “I like helping people. It’s gratifying. Not sexually, obviously. Just. For my mind.”

“You must really, really like helping people.” Knots are eating at Graeme’s stomach, and with everything, with the last 12 hours he’s had, he hasn’t eaten anything but he still feels like he might throw up.

Alan lets out a choked little laugh. “I do. And I can tell you more about that later, if you want.”

“I just need to know what _you_ want. In exchange. What do you want from me, for this? To pay you back? I can’t afford— a hotel, or your place, or whatever, I can’t— Do you want— what do you want?”

“Why do you think you have to pay me back?” Alan asks softly.

“Because that’s how the world works?”

“I can’t do something just ‘cause?”

Graeme shakes his head.

“Graeme—”

“No, we have to make a deal, we _have_ to, okay? That’s how this works, that’s how—” The desperation is edging through his voice, and he can’t hold it back. “People don’t just give, okay? So what do you want? I can’t pay you back with money, I don’t have enough as it is, but like I said I can cook, and I can knit—”

“You can knit?” Alan interrupts. “That’s so cool. Fascinating.”

Graeme frowns. “I— I— do you want something knitted?”

There’s a momentary silence in the town car. Then, Alan shakes his head, then nods, then laughs. “Well, maybe, someday.”

Graeme’s brow furrows. “Alan—”

Alan holds up his hand. “I don’t want anything back, except maybe to see what your face looks like when pain isn’t etched into it.”

“I— what?”

Alan goes quiet again, looking away from Graeme for the first time in awhile. From the side, Graeme can see now that Alan’s eyes are a soft brown. Hmm. He reaches down into Graeme’s plastic bag of effects from the hospital and pulls out the knit hat he was wearing when he got hit. “Did you make this?”

Graeme nods, swallowing.

“I want one— no, two. I have a niece and nephew who would both love this. It’s so soft. Different colors, of course.”

“You want to give me a place to stay for a couple of days, and in return, you want me to make you two hats? That’s it?”

Alan frowns. “I mean, you might need a place to recover for weeks, if I heard the doctor right. Plus I wouldn’t even know how to start one of these things, and my sister _loves_ to buy local, handcrafted goods. She’s forever nagging me about not just buying the kids the latest toy and calling it good.” Alan pulls the hat down over his own sandy waves, and smiles at him, and Graeme, of course, finds himself smiling back. “Maybe one for me, too?”

“It’s a good fit,” Graeme murmurs. “Do people say ‘no’ to you?”

“Not often.” Alan just keeps on smiling.

“I need to grab some stuff from my room. Clothes, toothbrush, et cetera.”

Alan’s grin goes wide, showing Graeme those eye crinkles again.

“We _could_ labor our way up those stairs, _or_ I could send Hendrick out with your sizes and a list, and he can bring back whatever you need. We’ll get you settled in, and you can text whoever you want my address, let them check in on you. I don’t want you to feel unsafe.”

“Oh, I don’t have anyone who would care if I went missing, except me.” Maybe it's a stupid thing to say, but it's the truth as he knows it. Terrence and Fernando can easily find a new roommate; he's expendable at his job; he hasn't talked to his mom since he walked out of the trailer park two years ago. No one cares about Graeme but Graeme, and Graeme's used to it.

Alan’s face, his voice, are serious now. He turns to signal Hendrick back in, and murmurs, “Someone cares.”


	6. Welcome Home - Graeme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graeme and Alan open up to each other.

Alan’s apartment is breathtaking. Not quite the top level of a swanky high-rise, but near it, enough to have a beautiful view of the city and the Puget Sound beyond. Graeme breathes in, hands shaky, _mind_ shaky. “Are you some kind of hitman, to afford this?”

Alan laughs, coming up beside him to look out the same floor-to-ceiling window. “No, I just managed to have the right idea at the right time. Apps. My first … few… were a major hit. Still are.” 

“Candy Crush?”

He laughs again, and Graeme smiles at the warm sound. He doesn’t know why Alan finds him amusing, and not in the way that everyone in his high school found him amusing, because his mental illness made him weird. Alan seems to take genuine enjoyment in being around him.

“No, not Candy Crush. I’d own the whole building if Candy Crush.” 

“True.” 

“You must be exhausted. Let me show you to the guest room. But— oh, are you hungry first? I could call for delivery while we do your first ice pack session.” 

Alan looks eager, kind of like an overexcited puppy. Graeme might buy it totally, if he hadn’t seen the quiet and powerful way Alan had commanded the Uber driver at the scene of his accident last night. As it is, it’s a strange juxtaposition, and it makes Graeme wary now. “Not hungry, not really tired either.” 

It’s kind of a lie. He’s exhausted, it’s true, but his mind is going to be racing for days with everything that has happened. As the pain meds slowly work themselves out of his bloodstream, and the pain comes back, his mind becomes clearer. How fucked his work situation is becomes clearer. He’s going to need to worry over that for a few days, at least. No rest for the anxious. 

Alan’s looking at him, trying to read him, probably. “Want to do your ice thing on the couch? If you don’t mind me being there, I need to get some work done.” 

“You have to work on a Saturday but you don’t have to go in?” Maybe Alan could distract him. 

“I have a big presentation on Monday, so I need to go through emails and prep and finalize everything. But today, I’m here.” Alan smiles, his hands spread wide. “At your service.” 

“I— couch sounds good.” He turns away from the window, then grimaces at the pain and at his own scent. “And ice sounds good, too. And then maybe a shower, I smell like fried food and hospital.” He wrinkles his nose as he lowers onto the couch. 

There’s an entertainment system in front of him, with a big flat screen tv. Strangely, there’s a treadmill with what looks like a desk attached to it, lined up to watch the tv, too. 

A black cat winds its way around the side of the couch and hops up, sniffing at him curiously. 

“That would be Threepio,” Alan calls from the kitchen area. “He’s the friendly one. Artoo is around somewhere, hiding, I’m sure. She’s your typical scaredy cat, black and white patches. Here we go.” He passes Graeme a large plastic bag of ice wrapped in a towel. “I need to text Hendrick and ask him to pick up some ice packs, too, so we don’t have to keep using ice.” 

Graeme hisses as he drapes it over his left side. “God, that both hurts and feels good, you know?”

“Surprisingly, yes, I do. Okay, there’s the timer set for twenty minutes. Can I get you anything to drink? To read, or listen to?”

Graeme shakes his head, closing his eyes. Maybe he can sleep. 

“Will it be too loud if I work on my treadmill? I can’t really stand sitting still for too long while I’m working. It helps my mind think better.” Alan sounds worried. 

Graeme blinks his eyes open. “No, no, of course. It’s totally okay with me. This is your place.” 

Alan is still chewing his lip. 

“Hey, look, if you can’t work, you can’t make the money to pay off my bill, right?” He tries a smile. 

Alan laughs a little. “Smartass,” he says under his breath. 

Funny, Graeme is actually really starting to like the name.

In a way, the treadmill provides a similar sort of white noise to the rain sounds, but Graeme’s too keyed up to be able to use it as a coping mechanism. He’s getting used to the cold, and that doesn’t provide enough of a distraction, either. 

_ What if the Burger Joint doesn’t take him back? _

Graeme closes his eyes against the thought. He’d spoken to Jeremy personally in the hospital. He’d given Graeme the week to recover and had only made one graham-cracker joke, so he must have been feeling okay. 

_ But no, what if, though? _

The job at Quix-Stop is gone; he can’t afford to lose the Burger Joint hours. Maybe Jeremy can bump his hours up? Maybe he can start trying for that managerial position he’s been avoiding because he’s non-confrontational and horrible management material?

Maybe he can just start digging his own grave. Because if he doesn’t come up with more money, he’s going to end up on the street. And if he ends up on the street, he’s going to legitimately not be able to handle his mind anymore. The thin thread of routine is what has been keeping him together through all of this. If he loses that, if he has to fight day to day, he’s not sure he’s going to make it—

“Graeme?”

If he has to live on the streets, he’ll lose access to fresh food. He’ll never make up the calories needed. He’ll starve to death. Also Fernando and Terrence might starve to death. In fact, they might be starving to death already, without his food to eat. Will they jack up the price for Graeme’s piece of the rent this month because he’s not going to be there for a week to cook for them? Maybe he should call a delivery service, he could maybe afford it with the money from the driver and the money he’s saving on food this week here at Alan’s—

“Graeme.”

Alan’s hand closes over his, and Graeme vibrates, looking down at their connection. Alan had stopped his fingers from the pattern they’d been etching into his own pants, over and over. He might have started to wear through the fabric.  _ Shit. _ He  _ needs _ these pants.

“Graeme,” Alan says again, and it’s that soft, commanding voice, the one he used on the Uber driver. The one that compels Graeme to look up at him. 

He can’t speak, though, or all the crazy will come tumbling out. He swallows, and swallows again, realizing his heart is beating rapidly. One of his least favorite feelings. He watches the slow rise and fall of Alan’s chest, the small indication of his breathing, and tries to match his own to it. 

When he finally feels like he can speak, even he’s surprised at what comes out. “I need yarn. And needles.” 

“What?”

“I need to pay you back. I need yarn and needles, Alan.” 

“Right— right now?” Alan looks worried, and confused, probably. “Don’t worry about it, give yourself twenty-four hours to rest at least—”

Graeme laughs bitterly, on the edge of hysterical, the movement causing a sharp pain in his ribs. 

“What?”

“Just— that line doesn't work on me. 'Don’t worry about it’. I’m incapable of not worrying about it.”

“What do you mean?”

“The anxiety thing we talked about earlier?” Graeme waves a hand at his head. “It’s an anxiety disorder. I— I’m always worried. Always. About anything. That line doesn’t work on me.” 

Alan’s fingers squeeze his. “I’m sorry, I didn’t even think about how that sounded. I’ll try not to say it again, okay?”

He nods, feeling wetness on his cheeks. Oh, he’s crying in front of Alan. Again. Great. “Did— did you need something?”

“The timer went off.” Alan reaches over, taking the ziploc bag of cold water and the towel. “That sounds hard, being worried all the time. Are you in therapy? On meds? I noticed when the doctor asked this morning—”

Graeme laugh-sobs and folds his arms tightly around himself, then winces in pain. 

Alan notices, frowning. “Hey, come here, if you need to hug something, you can hug me. I promise I won’t hurt you. I won’t let you hurt yourself.” 

Graeme hesitates for a second before unwrapping his arms and letting Alan lift him onto his lap. Because apparently that’s a thing Alan has the strength for, which sort of blows Graeme’s mind.  Alan’s arms are big and warm around him, and delicate, not laying on any of the parts of his body that ache. Despite Alan’s obvious strength, there’s a softness about him that Graeme can sink into. He’s not bulgy like a bodybuilder, but comfortable. Graeme whispers “I’m sorry” on repeat. Alan just rocks him, gently, and pets through his hair, and murmurs comforting words. Graeme’s main thought is that he doesn’t deserve this. 

“I can’t afford therapy. I used to go, in high school. The counselor sneaked me in, even though my mom wouldn’t sign the consent form. It wasn’t free, you see. The meds, those I could get through CHIP, so that was okay, but not the therapy.”

“The meds work?”

Graeme makes a distressed noise. “Meds, yeah, well... I was on something that worked, it was working really well, actually. I was thinking about maybe… maybe saving up for trade school or something. I felt kind of normal for the first time in my life, like I could focus.” 

“What happened to the meds?” Alan asks gently, still petting through his hair. 

“Couldn’t afford them anymore.”

Alan frowns. “How much did they cost?”

“Well, it depended on my dealer’s supply—”

“Your  _ dealer?” _

Graeme just shrugs.

“Are you...are you doing other drugs?”

“No. I don’t like my brain being messy. It’s already messy enough without having to waste my paycheck.” 

“So...you don’t have enough money for the meds that help with your disorder, so your brain is messy right now.” 

“Really fucking messy. Sorry. That’s, uh. Probably not the sort of thing you really want to help with.” 

“What happened to your supply?”

Graeme shivers. “I’m not going back if I don’t have to. The last time— But I don’t know. My brain’s just getting messier. Like, now I know how it’s  _ supposed _ to work, how your brain probably works, if you’re neurotypical. So now it just seems worse. Any little thing can start off a worry spiral.” 

“And it’s not like you have just little things to worry about,” Alan murmurs, and God, he sounds like he actually kind of understands. 

“Yeah.” 

“What if I paid for the meds? And maybe some therapy, or at least we could try to find someone you like?”

Graeme pushes himself upright from Alan’s surprisingly solid chest. “What? Why?”

Alan looks nervous, or distraught, maybe. He sets Graeme aside and walks back to the kitchen area, pouring them both a glass of water from the fridge filter. "You opened up to me about your anxiety. I'm...this is heavy, but I want to tell you. A little quid pro quo, maybe."  


Graeme looks at him, unsure. "Okay." 

“You asked why? A bunch of people would tell you, ‘that’s what Alan Garry does.’ And it’s not that they're wrong. I donate to charity, of course, but most people write that off as a tax thing. I help newbies get a start in the business. I always give away my free latte card to the person behind me.” Graeme smiles at that, like he’s sure Alan intended him to. “That’s Alan Garry.”

He hands off a glass to Graeme, then takes a deep swallow of his own water. “But very few people know  _ why _ I do it. Have this...need to take care of people.” He’s quiet for a moment, rolling his water glass between his hands. Finally, he looks up at Graeme. “You remind me of someone. Not in looks— his eyes were green, not gray, and he had blonde hair. He was my best friend, Tommy.” Alan smiles ruefully. “My first crush, though he didn't know it. We met in middle school and became inseparable, and I was totally in love with him before I knew what love was supposed to feel like.”

Graeme reaches out for Alan’s hand. “That's a lot of past tense, there.” 

“Yeah. He— I— he had a horrible home life, and ultimately, it killed him. Before we'd even graduated.” Alan meets his eyes. “So, uh. I'm always trying to save Tommy, I guess. That's my baggage.”

“I’m so sorry, Alan.” 

"Long time ago, now," Alan murmurs, looking away again. "I want to help you." 

"That...makes sense," Graeme decides, rubbing his thumb along Alan's finger. 

Alan’s fingers twist in his. “There’s something else, too, and I don’t want it to freak you out, and even I don’t know how much it’s related to what happened to Tommy and my whole hero complex and—” He cuts himself off, looking down at their hands.  


Graeme’s heart thumps with anxiety. “Just say it?”

“When you said, about sex, and I told you I’m ace— that’s true. But, um, I do...get a certain mental satisfaction out of being a Dom.”

Graeme frowns. “I don’t know what that is.” 

“I, um. Well. It means Dominant. And sometimes I, uh, do things, with other people, that some people might consider sexual, with a Submissive. I don’t— I mean, I very seldom get off on it sexually? But I like to...take care of people.” 

“Why are you telling me?”

“Because I felt like I should be open about it. I didn’t want to hide it and then have you find out and then think that I was trying to lead you on or manipulate you — I only do it with partners who are also in the kink scene, and only after discussing boundaries, and that's not any part of this deal at all, I promise, I don't expect anything from you, ever, at all.” He cuts himself off. “What are you thinking?”

Graeme processes, trying to wrap his mind around the new information. “So you get off, but not really, but like, get off in your mind, by taking care of me?” 

Alan bites his lip. “Kind of, yeah. Mildly. Not like if I was doing a scene with someone.” 

“That, uh—” What  _ does _ he think about it? “That sounds kind of sweet. I mean, also, it sounds like a lot of vocabulary I need to Google, but as long as you don’t, like, try to, um, do that, without talking to me, then I think we’re good.” Alan practically sags in relief, and Graeme squeezes his hand in comfort. 

Alan gives Graeme a quick hug and eases him gently back down to the couch before pushing himself up. He begins pacing. “I have a therapist, I call her when things get too heavy for me to handle by myself. I'll see if she's taking new patients. I'll pay for the meds. You deserve to have an unmessy brain, Graeme.”

_ Do I? _ Graeme just licks his lips and nods. 

“Is there something we can do to help keep you from, um, well, on my end, it’s kind of like you go catatonic.” 

“I call it spiraling,” Graeme murmurs. 

“Is there something we can do to help keep you from spiraling, since we don’t have access to meds right now?

“Having something to do with my hands helps.” Graeme blushes. “That’s why I was asking for knitting stuff earlier, except I sounded like a spaz, I know.” 

Alan sits down, rubbing over his knee. “You didn’t. It’s okay.” He pops up again, the overeager puppy, and grabs something by the doorway. “What about this? Is there anything in here that will help?” He sets Graeme’s backpack in his lap. 

Grateful, Graeme unzips it and digs out the hat he’d been knitting. “Yeah, this is perfect.” 

“Anything else?”

Graeme looks away. “Um…”

“You can ask, Graeme, it’s okay. If it’s within my power to give to you, I’m going to give it to you.” 

“Oh, it’s not all dramatic or anything, just...embarrassing. I, um, really like rain sounds?”

Alan frowns, looking over at the window and the partially cloudy sky. “Um, I think I need to explain to you about what I have the power to do. I’m not Thor.” 

The absurdity of Alan’s enthusiasm makes Graeme laugh a little. “On my phone. I have an album of rain sounds on my phone.” 

“Oh! Yeah, that makes more sense.” Alan grins at him, and it’s so endearing, Graeme’s heart squeezes. “So, knitting and rain sounds. Oh!” he exclaims again, and it makes Graeme laugh a little. “You wanted to take a shower earlier. Still want to? I can give you the tour, too.” 

“Oh, God, yes, please, I smell so gross.” 

“I was thinking while you were icing — maybe a bath, instead? I feel like the shower wouldn’t be gentle enough on your bruises.” 

Graeme feels his eyes go wide. “You have a  _ bathtub?” _

Alan just grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I, uh, never thought I would get comments on this fic. I am ... so absolutely humbled and heartwarmed that people are clicking on original fic and not only liking it to leave kudos but actually taking the time to comment. You guys are awesome. <3


	7. The Grand Tour - Alan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alan gives Graeme the tour of his apartment, then helps him in the bath.

Alan rubs his hands together, grinning widely. “Are you ready for the grand tour?”

He’s gratified when Graeme holds his hands out to be helped up from the couch. “I guess, since I’m here for the week.” 

Alan’s already starting to know Graeme’s tones. That was the one that means Graeme’s only pretending to be uninterested. “All right, so…”

After pulling him up, Alan retains one of his hands, and leads him away from the kitchen/living area. “This part you’ve seen already, but of course, my cupboards are your cupboards, my entertainment is your entertainment, et cetera. Feel free to poke through anything. Depending on what you know about kink toys, you might be shocked by some stuff in the master bedroom, but honestly, I don’t have a ton of secrets that aren’t, like, locked up in my brain, or behind encryption for work.” He slides a speculative glance at Graeme. “Although, I don’t know, this could all be a ruse, a long-con corporate espionage mission. Who sent you? Was it Zuckerberg?”

Graeme laughs, and oh, that’s nice. Someone who likes teasing. Because Alan likes to tease. “You really think you’re on Zuckerberg’s level? I mean, even  _ I _ know Zuckerberg, and I don’t know you.” 

“Ouch. Dish out and ye shall receive, Garry. I need to remember you’re a smartass.” He leads Graeme down the hallway. “Okay, the door with the cat painting on it?”

“That’s a cat?” Graeme twists his head sideways. 

“Everyone says that. Yes, it’s a cat. It’s modern art.  _ Some people,” _ Alan mock grumbles. “Anyway, you can also think of it as the only door that has a piece of art on it. That’s the cat’s closet. Used to be for linens, or whatever, but I wanted to give the cats a quiet, out-of-the-way place to go, so they won’t track litter everywhere.” He lightly kicks the small pet flap in the door to show how it swings. 

“Continuing on, we have my office, though I do a lot of work at the treadmill out in the living area. This door would be the master suite, where the bathtub is. I can show you the guest room after your bath, but you can get changed in here if you want.” He swings the door open, then immediately flushes at the state of his room. He deftly kicks a shirt from the ground to the hamper. “Uh, Sorry for the mess.” 

Graeme shrugs nonchalantly, and doesn’t look horrified at all. “You should see my place.” 

Alan rubs his neck. “I have a lady who comes once a week, or else this room would look like my office,” he confesses. “Which, by the way, is not off limits, or anything, but it might be hazardous to your health.

“And here we go, the ensuite bathroom, complete with the bathtub, voila.” Alan waves his hands through the air like Vanna White showing off a prize. 

Graeme’s eyes go wide, and he seems to fold in on himself self-consciously. Alan drops his hands and stops vamping, embarrassed. He needs to remember that Graeme isn’t used to this. Once upon a time, Alan wasn’t used to it either, but even then, he still hadn’t been in the dire situation Graeme is obviously in. He steps over to the tub, instead. It’s big enough to fit at least two people, and is a central part of the aftercare of any scene he does here. He gives Graeme a moment to himself as he gets the bath going. 

“I’m going to throw in some epsom salt. I've got the regular stuff, peppermint, or lavender. It'll help soothe your aches.”

“Regular is fine, no need to waste the good stuff on me.”

_ Something tells me I would ‘waste’ all manner of good stuff on you, _ he thinks, but doesn’t say. “Regular it is.” He tosses a cup in, swirling the water to help dissolve the salt, then turning away as the water continues to fill the tub. 

They stand awkwardly silent, the steam rising around them.

Alan coughs, unable to stand it anymore. Where had the banter from the hallway gone? The tender moment on the couch?  _ Alan Garry, master of awkward, when it really comes down to it. _  “I’ll go then, just yell if you need anything, I'm just going to be in the bedroom. Oh! I think I have some really soft pajamas that will feel good on your body— your bruises, I mean.” 

Graeme nods, and Alan escapes, groaning and continuing to beat himself up mentally as he flops down on his bed. In the bathroom, he hears an echo of Graeme cursing, and pops up. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, it’s just— fuck. Man. I’m really bruised. I’m good, though. Sorry.” 

“No problem. Just, uh. Right here if you need me.” 

“Thanks.” 

_Right. So._ Alone with his thoughts again. And his thoughts are all muddled at the moment. Graeme is the biggest fucking wrench he’s had thrown at him in a long time. He’s known Graeme for — he checks his watch — about 15 hours, most of which Graeme’s been out of it, so, probably not his normal self. And yet, Alan is drawn to him. He hasn’t felt like this since— since a while, his brain supplies, refusing to take him to Tommy territory again. 

The thing is, the more he gets to know Graeme, the less he’s like Tommy, at all. And yet all of Alan’s protective instincts are triggered. He wants to keep Graeme happy, and safe, and close, and—

“Al—Alan?”

Alan jolts on the bed, then races to the bathroom, poking his head in. Graeme is sitting quietly in the tub, a lovely shade of pink, the steam really curling his mop of brown hair in an adorably appealing way. “What's up? Do you need help? What can I do?”

Graeme looks a little amused at his string of words. “My phone? Can you get it from my hoodie?”

He quickly locates the hoodie on the floor before Graeme can say anything else, then grabs a small towel. He hands both off, so Graeme can wipe off his hand to unlock the screen with his fingerprint. Watching Graeme scroll through and tap efficiently, like he’s done the moves a thousand times before, rain sounds begin to pour out of the speaker, tinny. They immediately put a small smile on Graeme’s face. He hands the phone back to Alan, who sets it on the counter where it won’t be in danger of falling into the tub, and gives Graeme a smile and nod before walking back out of the bathroom. 

On his bed again, he opens up his messages. 

    **Alan:** I'm not going to make it tomorrow

    **Sam:** _How's the kid?_

    **Alan:** Guy

    **Sam:** _?_

    **Alan:** Not a kid. Guy

    **Sam:** _Okay. How's the guy? See, doesn't that sound weird?_

    **Alan:** No. Anyway, he's in a lot of pain 

    **Sam:** _Did he get discharged?_

    **Alan:** Yeah. We're at my apartment now. He's staying with me for recovery

The three dots indicating that Sam is typing appear long enough that Alan closes out the window and goes to check his email. 

    **Sam:** _Okay._

Alan sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. 

    **Alan:** It's okay. You don't have to come visit and personally check him out or anything

    **Sam:** _What do you mean? I definitely wasn't getting in the car._

    **Sam:** _What're you doing? Are you being safe? Do you even know him?_

    **Alan:** There it is

    **Sam:** _You can't blame me._

    **Alan:** You know when you put a period at the end of a sentence like that on text it looks like you're mad

    **Sam:** _I have grammar. Sue me._

    **Alan:** Text Hen if you don't trust my judgement

    **Sam:** _Well when you put it that way. Period. Period._

    **Alan:** Now you just look ridiculous

    **Sam:** _Be safe, okay?_

    **Sam:** _Wrap it up. Your dick and your heart._

    **Alan:** I don't think they make heart condoms.

    **Sam:** _Ha, see, who's doing proper grammar now._

    **Alan:** I was mad. I'm mad, at my sister, because she doesn't trust my judgement. Period.

    **Sam:** _I don't get your generation._

    **Alan:** You're only eight years older than me

    **Sam:** _Just be careful, baby bro. Okay?_

    **Alan:** Okay. I'll see you next Sunday, I promise

    **Sam:** _Hey, mom and dad have to miss that one. Might be a good time to bring a new friend around...._

    **Alan:** Yeah

 

There's a particularly loud crash of thunder from Graeme's phone that echoes through the bathroom and out to the bed. Alan chews his lip. The pressure of meeting his family is the _last_ thing Graeme needs right now. 

He sends off a quick text to his sister and opens the app store, looking for white noise apps. He finds one that will work for now, although his mind is already racing for ideas for modifications. He opens his notes and begins typing rapidly. 

 

Some time later, Alan’s brought out of his work by a grunting sound from the bathroom that sounds more like a grunt of pain than anything else. He drops the phone on the bed and runs back into the bathroom. “Graeme, what’s wrong, that didn’t sound good—”

“I’m stuck,” Graeme admits through clenched teeth, his hands gripping the sides of the tub. “I’m—” 

Feelings cross over Graeme’s face, until he takes a deep breath to steady himself. 

Calmly, trying not to cause Graeme any embarrassment, Alan reaches down to lift him efficiently out of the tub. “Shit, yeah, I bet the hot water just sapped your strength right out, huh?” he says lightly, reaching down to let the drain up. He leaves Graeme temporarily to grab a towel. When he comes back, Graeme is watching the water slowly drain. Alan thinks he might be starting to ‘spiral,’ so he tries to make all of his movements deliberate and calm, like he might when one of the cats is spooked by a thunderstorm. 

He wraps the fluffy towel around Graeme’s body gently. “There we go,” he almost whispers, smiling. He’s gratified when he sees Graeme focus on that smile and reflexively smile back. Graeme wraps the towel more tightly around himself, seeming to revel in the softness on his skin. “How are your legs feeling now?”

“Let me try.” Graeme pushes on the edge of the tub and stands with extremely shaky legs. Alan holds out an arm so he can steady himself. “I don’t think I’ll do that again anytime soon,” he manages, with a derisive laugh. “Sorry.”  

“No need for an apology, Graeme.” 

Graeme hums, wiping at his skin halfheartedly. 

“Can I?” 

Graeme searches his face, then nods. Again, efficiently, gently, Alan begins to dry Graeme’s skin, even over his crotch, though it’s not like he lingers. Just that Alan figures it will be hard for him to twist and reach that spot right now. Graeme’s dick doesn’t take an interest, either, so that’s good, then, no sexual tension, everything efficient and gentle and calm. 

When he’s done, he helps Graeme into the pajamas he’d grabbed from his dresser. They’re the softest ones he owns, he’s had them for approximately forever, and they’re quite possibly his favorites. It does something profound to see Graeme basically swimming in them; Alan has about 6 inches and at least 50 pounds on him. There’s something deeply satisfying about seeing Graeme all comfy and cozy in his pajamas, his painted toes peeking out from under the huge pants. 

Graeme rolls the cuffs up, grinning down at the emblem emblazoned across his chest. “Spider-Man?”

“I’m a cliche,” Alan answers with a shrug and a grin. “A nerd through and through.” He lifts his t-shirt sleeve up to show the tattoo on his inner bicep and grins, wiggling his eyebrows. Graeme kind of cocks his head, trying to make sense of it, and Alan lets his smile waver. “You don’t recognize it?” 

“Uh—”

Alan sighs heavily. “It’s the triforce symbol from Zelda. You’ve failed my nerd test. Sorry, I’ll have to kick you out now.” He lets that sit for a beat before smiling at Graeme again. “Just kidding.” 

“I’m probably a nerd, just not about video games, and yes, I at least know that Zelda is a video game.” 

Alan holds out his arm to help Graeme up from where he’d been leaning on the counter. “Oh, and what do you nerd out over?”

“Yarn,” Graeme admits, his cheeks going a delightful shade of pink. “Food, a little.” 

“That’s awesome, and I love it,” Alan states matter-of-factly. “Speaking of, ready for some food? I think Hendrick brought us chicken from the store.”

“Sure,” Graeme says back. “Can I have, like, twelve ibuprofen first?” 

“Sure.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know that thing where you're going home and you're like "I'm going to be so productive!" and then you get home and you're like "nope." 
> 
> That's me tonight. I'm trying to alleviate some of my guilt by posting.


	8. Getting to know Alan - Graeme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graeme spends more time getting to know Alan.

Alan actually only gives him two ibuprofen, but they’re the prescription ones, so it’s okay. There’s an island that separates the kitchen from the living area, and they sit there for lunch, munching on chicken.

“It’s not so bad,” Graeme says about the chicken, then realizes belatedly how ungrateful that sounds. “I mean— it’s great— I just don’t normally do fast food, because, you know. Working fast food makes it unappealing really quickly.” 

“That makes sense.” Alan looks sheepish. “I eat out way too much, or I just, you know, grab a protein shake or whatever.”

Graeme wrinkles his nose. “You have this beautiful kitchen, and you don’t use it?” 

“I’m pretty sure my mom has said the same thing to me on a weekly basis for the last, at least eight years.” 

“Sore spot?” 

“Eh. Just...cooking for one doesn’t hold much appeal, you know? Easier just to get something to go.” 

“That’s true, I guess. I cook for my roommate, Terrence, in return for a portion of rent. I mean, I don’t get fancy, or anything. Just, like, throw stuff together. Try to make cheap taste good.” 

“That sounds like a tagline: ‘Make cheap taste good: Webster Products.’” Alan squares his hands up like he’s looking at a sign or something.

Graeme snorts. “Like anyone would ever  _ buy _ anything from me.” 

“Why not?”

“I’m not one of those Food Network chefs or something. I just take stuff and throw it together. Sometimes I experiment. I don’t have any training beyond, like, grilling hamburgers to death.” 

“Would you want to be? Trained, I mean.” 

Graeme sets down his fork, not feeling like eating the rest of the partially coagulated mac n’ cheese anymore. “Where would I get the money for that?”

“Yeah.” Alan presses his lips together, seeming to let it go, and changing the subject. 

 

After the late lunch, it’s time again to ice his ribs. Graeme is just getting settled in when rain sounds start pouring out of hidden speakers all around the living room.

“How’s that?” Alan calls from the kitchen, fiddling with his phone. “How’s the volume?”

“It’s— it’s good— Alan? Are you sure? This isn’t distracting? Don’t you need to work?”

“I can basically work with anything in the background. This is totally doable. Don’t wo— I mean, I’m all good.” 

“Thanks,” Graeme murmurs softly, readjusting the ice pack and picking up his knitting. He doesn’t miss the way Alan caught himself. He offers him a small smile in appreciation. 

 

They lapse into silence, the routine of 20 minutes on, 40 minutes off with the ice taking up most of the afternoon. By seven, Alan is curled up on the opposite side of the couch, and Threepio is pawing at his neck and purring, and they’re watching some superhero show Alan likes on the TV. Graeme’s eyes keep drifting shut and it’s barely seven. He knows if he lets himself get out of his sleeping routine, he’ll regret life next week. Then again, now that he doesn’t have the Quix-Stop job, he could take on the morning shift at the Burger Joint like Jeremy has been wanting him to do. 

“You should go to bed, Graeme,” Alan murmurs, his foot pressing a little at the side of Graeme’s thigh to get his attention. “Rest helps your body heal.” 

Graeme chews on his lip. 

“What are you thinking?” Alan asks gently. “How can I be helpful?”

Graeme looks down, letting his hands lay in his lap. He’s getting way too used to the way Alan asks that, like he cares. “I’m worried that if I go to bed now, I’m going to wake up at three in the morning with nothing to distract me. I hate being awake when I should be sleeping, it’s way easier for the spirals to take hold then.” 

“I bet you’ll sleep. You really haven’t gotten much since last night, even with the dozing off. But,” Alan offers him a smile, “if you do wake up, feel free to come out here and watch something, or come wake me up, or cook, or do whatever you need to do to distract yourself, okay? This is your recovery space.” 

“You said you have an important meeting Monday—”

“I mean, I’m from Seattle, my blood is already half espresso. I’ll be okay.” He dislodges Threepio gently to the couch beside him, and stands, holding out his hand. “Come on. The bed is even more comfortable than the couch.” 

Graeme lets Alan help him to his feet, worry not assuaged, although it would honestly be a miracle if Alan could actually assuage it. An understanding person like Alan, or like his old high school counselor, they’re helpful, yeah, but it’s therapy, meds, and coping mechanisms that do the trick, really. 

Threepio follows them to the guest bedroom, and jumps deftly onto the bed. Alan laughs. “Threepio might sleep with you tonight, but if he tries to sleep  _ on _ you, feel free to push him away. He’s a cuddly dork, he’ll come find me, and save your ribs.” 

Graeme pulls back the fluffy comforter and slides between the cool sheets. The bed honestly feels like heaven, after years of that lumpy futon. He sighs, and sinks in, getting comfortable. “The doc said no bed rest, but damn, this is nice.” 

Alan grins. “Need anything before I go?”

“I think I’m good. Oh, hey, Alan?” He stops Alan just as he’s at the door. He points at Threepio, who’s still chilling on the bed with him, washing himself. “Star Wars, huh? Nerd.” 

Alan laughs at the teasing, muttering ‘smartass’ under his breath as he pulls the door halfway shut. 

 

Monday morning, Graeme’s not sure whether he’s woken by the blinding pain radiating from his hip, or Alan’s frantic movements and whispered condemnations of his cat. “Shoo, Threepio, dang it—” 

Graeme grunts, in pain, caught in the moment when one just wakes up and nothing quite makes sense. 

Alan smiles down at him apologetically. “Hey, sorry, I meant to do that a lot more gracefully, but Threepio—” He waves a hand at the door. “Anyway, I just wanted to wake you before I left for work, for a couple of things.” He sits on the side of the bed, letting Graeme wake up a little more slowly. 

Everything is stiff. He probably didn’t get enough movement on Sunday. “Christ,” he mutters, feeling about a hundred years old. “Fuck, shit, dammit—”

“Frak, kriff, gorram—” Alan helps Graeme into a seated position against the pillows, then places the ice pack gently against his ribs. 

As the numbing starts to wash through the pain, Graeme sags back into the pillows in relief. “Holy shit. Okay. That’s slightly better.” 

Next, Alan offers him more ibuprofen and water. “I know you could probably get this yourself, but I thought it was better to get it in your system right away.” 

“Thanks,” Graeme murmurs, hoping he sounds grateful and not froggy and tired and irritated in his pain. He swallows the pills and sags into the pillows once more. “Seriously, thanks.” 

“No problem, buddy.” He pulls Graeme’s phone out of his charger and hands it to him. “I was wondering if you would unlock this, so I could add myself to your contacts?”

“Yeah, that makes sense,” Graeme says, handing it over. “How long are you normally at work?”  _ How long am I going to be left to my own devices for my brain to attack me? _

“Well, that’s something I wanted to ask about. That big meeting I mentioned, that’s this morning.” Alan readjusts his tie, looking slightly uncomfortable in it. The suit looks amazing on him, though, framing his broad shoulders. 

Graeme frowns at the thought. _ Where did that come from? _

“My therapist, Clarissa, she would love to meet with you, if you want, today. If you’re feeling up to it. I know the doc said not to just lie around, so I thought maybe going out for a bit wouldn’t be so bad…”

“Wow, um.” Graeme rubs sleep from his eyes, trying to beat his brain into working. “Yeah, no, that would be really good. Wow. I had no idea it would happen that quickly.” 

“Money talks,” Alan says simply, and Graeme has to agree.

The thought of spilling his guts to someone new makes him nervous, but the idea of getting back on his meds makes it worth it. God, does he want a functioning brain. 

“I mean, I can’t promise I’ll be walking like normal, or anything, but yeah, I think I can do an appointment.” 

Alan rubs over his knuckles — over the last couple of days he’d asked permission, Graeme remembers. He doesn’t mind that Alan didn’t ask this time. It seems kind of...natural, now. “We’ll go slow,” he promises. 

Maybe Graeme is still sleep-dazed, but looking up at Alan’s friendly, handsome face, his eye crinkles glinting beneath his glasses, his smile radiating down on Graeme, Graeme can’t help but wonder at other possible meanings of that promise. “I’ll hold you to that,” he says, because he can’t think of anything better. 

“I have a little bit of time, if you wanted to try the bath again.” Alan looks concerned, now. “I wouldn’t want you to try it without someone here, just in case— but, I mean, you can make the decision.” 

Graeme shakes his head. “No, I don’t think I’ll be trying that one again anytime soon. I’ll stick to the shower, and I think I can manage.”

“Oh! Let me put Mal’s contact info in here, too.” He takes the phone back and taps through it again. “If you try to text me, and I don’t answer back, and it’s an emergency, contact Mal. They’re my personal assistant, and they know my schedule better than I do. They can also help you with pretty much anything you need, okay?”

“Okay.” Before Alan can leave completely, Graeme calls out, “Oh, hey, Alan? Good luck with the big meeting thing.” 

Alan grins. “Thanks!”

 

Come noon, Graeme’s summoned via text downstairs, where he meets Alan and Hendrick in the town car. Hendrick offers him a fist bump in greeting, which makes Graeme smile. “Learned it from my grandkid,” Hendrick says. 

“Nice,” Graeme offers, bumping back. He lets Alan help him into the car — he’d gone through an ice session right before this, so his ribs are still kind of numb, but the help is nice, and now that Graeme knows Alan likes to offer it...it’s harder to turn down. 

It’s also harder to say no to the lingering hand at the small of his back as Alan helps him. 

“How did your presentation go?”

Alan looks over at him and smiles. “I think we're going to get the contract.”

“Candy Crush 2?”

“No. For the state government. A program that better links and identifies domestic abusers and flags them when they attempt to buy guns.”

Graeme’s eyes go wide. “Oh.”

“Government contracts keep the machine rolling, and sometimes they feel better than creating Candy Crush 2, to boot.”

Alan offers his hand, and Graeme looks at it, hesitates for about two seconds, and takes it, blushing as he notices Hendrick’s eyes in the mirror. “How are you feeling about this?” Alan asks quietly. 

“Nervous,” Graeme admits, licking his lips. “But good.” 

That answer could cover all manner of things, Graeme thinks. 


	9. Therapy - Graeme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graeme goes to his therapy session, and he and Alan negotiate a contract.

It takes awhile for Graeme to run down his entire personal history with Alan's therapist, Clarissa. But he finds he likes her, for the most part, although it feels a little weird to know that Alan is also one of her clients. She takes him through the history of his father’s suicide and his mother’s abusive boyfriends as gently as possible, in a way that has him crying, but not spiraling. He likes that her presence has that effect on him. She reminds him a little bit of his high school counselor, the one who had gone out of her way to check in with him and get him what needed.

He’d forgotten, in these two years since he’d graduated, what it’s like to have people beyond himself that care about him without strings attached. He’s not sure his heart is up to letting them in, but also, he wants to try.

Clarissa establishes what medications had worked and what hadn't, back when he'd been on CHIP. She doesn't say anything negative about the meds he'd been buying off the street, but recommends a new drug in the same family, tested with less side effects. It should help with some of the symptoms he’d been feeling even when he’d been regularly taking meds.

“It sounds like you know the drill, Graeme,” she says with a smile. “Let's try it for six weeks, see where you're at. I'd like to keep seeing you, in the meantime, once a week if that's possible?”

“I don't know,” Graeme replies honestly. “I don't know what's going to happen next week, let alone in six weeks.” He gives a shrug. “None of this,” he waves a hand between them, and at the prescription sitting on the coffee table, “was included when Alan and I first talked on Saturday. I don’t know if he wants something for this, or if it’s part of the deal, or— or what.”

She nods. “It’s entirely valid to feel insecure right now. Let me try to ease your mind for _this_ at least. I don't work for Alan, I work for you,” she replies softly, and clears her throat. “I work one day a week at the behavioral health clinic down in the U district. Sliding scale. Whatever is going on with Alan, you will _always_ be welcome in my office there. Tuesdays. Pro bono if needed, or whatever cash you want to give me.” When Graeme opens his mouth to protest, she holds up a hand. “I have a handful of clients that operate the same way. I'm compensated through a grant. It's okay.”

He swallows, and nods.

“It's too easy for someone like you to get lost, to slip through the cracks, Graeme. There are people out there who don't want that to happen, who donate so it won't happen.”

“And what do they get?”

Clarissa shrugs delicately. “Satisfaction. A tax write off. Maybe they're hoping to prevent the past from happening again. Maybe they’ve been in the situation and now they’re in a position where they can help.”

Graeme picks at the string coming off his hoodie pocket. “It’s hard for me to understand.”

“That’s okay. With your background, it makes perfect sense that you use this 'deal' structure to frame the world.”

“Alan...told me that he gets satisfaction from it? Like, kind of like sexual, but not?”

Clarissa smiles. “I’m proud of Alan for telling you that. Unfortunately, I’m not allowed to discuss other clients with you. However, I will say, in regards to anyone who feels gratified, sexually, mentally, or otherwise, from taking care of other people — well, what happens between consenting adults stays between consenting adults.”

Graeme can see why Alan has stayed with the sex-positive therapist for so long. “I’m...I’m not sure how to react when Alan does things for me that aren’t in the original deal, like paying for you, or my meds. I feel like I need to do more, to pay him back. And I don’t know what he’ll want in return, I just know that everyone wants repayment sometime.”

“Do you feel safe in the situation right now?”

Graeme shrugs. “I mean, I'm worried about what would happen if he randomly changed his mind.”

“Of course you are. That's perfectly valid. I also think it's a discussion we should bring him in for, with your permission.”

Graeme nods his consent.

 

When Alan enters, he gives Graeme space by sitting in the arm chair, not next to him on the couch. His fingers twist together, but his face looks calm.

“Graeme, may I summarize what we discussed at the end of the session for Alan? You may break in at any time to correct me,” Clarissa says in a calm, authoritative voice. Graeme nods again. “Alan, Graeme feels insecure with the verbal agreement you two reached in the car the other day. I know you're familiar with contracts, however. Would you be willing to sign an agreement stipulating what you expect from Graeme, what he can expect from you, and the length of said agreement?”

“Absolutely.” Alan’s answer is firm, and heartening. He pulls out his phone. “I have— well. I have an old contract we can use, if you’re comfortable, as a place to start. It’s for the Dom/sub stuff I told you about on Saturday? Hard limits, willing to try with negotiation, safe words and signals, et cetera. I should have thought of it before.”

Graeme’s brows furrow. “You have paperwork... for sex stuff?”

“What I do with partners — taking care of a sub, finding their subspace, performing aftercare — all of it requires talking, negotiations. What we do needs strict consent before, during, after, to keep it safe for everyone involved. Sometimes it’s just a verbal thing, if we’re doing something very light, but most of the time it’s a written contract, negotiated well in advance, that can be added to or taken away from or otherwise renegotiated at any time.”

“I had no idea there was so much talking involved,” Graeme murmurs.

Alan smiles at him and Clarissa. “It might seem tedious to outsiders, but it keeps anyone from feeling uncomfortable or— unsafe.” He nods at Graeme. “I’m really sorry you were feeling like that, and I should have thought of this earlier. Of _course_ the situation would make you feel unsafe, you don’t know me from a stranger on the street, you have no idea about my level of commitment to anything.”

Some deep part of Graeme is eased by the fact that Alan isn’t insulted.

Clarissa looks up from tapping through her phone, holding out a website to show them. “Contracts are extremely popular for Sugar Daddy relationships,” she says casually.

Graeme would react, except Alan’s reaction is so fascinating, he forgets to. Alan turns beet red, up into his hairline, down to where his white button up lays at his neck. “That’s— that’s not—”

Graeme, meanwhile, takes Clarissa’s phone and looks at the webpage pulled up. It’s a simple explanation of what a Sugar Daddy is — someone who provides for someone else, normally called a Sugar Baby, in exchange for companionship. That companionship may or may not involve sex. Graeme hums. Alan’s already assured him sex is not on the table, so what’s the big deal? What has Alan all flustered?

“You can call it other things. Patron. Benefactor.” Clarissa turns her full attention to Alan, now, and Graeme watches, fascinated. “You don’t often turn away from kink terminology, Alan.”  

Alan is still a shimmering red. He shakes his head once, and looks away from the both of them. “He doesn’t want this to be about sex.”

“You know as well as I do that kink isn’t—”

“I _know,_ just.” Alan’s face is still flaming. “Just. Don’t call it that.”

Graeme studies Alan’s face. He’s never seen Alan react like that. Of course, he’s only known Alan for three days, but in that time, Alan has calmly and rationally explained asexuality, domination and submissiveness, and kink. He kind of has to agree with Clarissa — why is Alan shying away from the whole Sugar Daddy thing? Graeme himself takes a second to think about it, and— and honestly, the idea of it fits his worldview so well, and like Clarissa said, consenting adults...he doesn’t find the idea of a Sugar Daddy/Baby thing off-putting at all. Is Alan disgusted, or the opposite? It’s hard to tell, and that’s weird, because Alan has been, so far, an open book to him.

“Okay,” Clarissa says calmly. “Such a relationship, whatever you’d like to call it, seems like what you want to have happen here, is that right, Alan? A mutually beneficial relationship based on one person providing financially for another. It could be for rent, or groceries, or gifts, or tuition. Any number of things, all negotiated. In exchange for companionship, or sex, or whatever gets negotiated.”

“Three knitted hats,” Graeme murmurs, and though he’s still red, Alan looks over and smiles at him.

“Three knitted hats, precisely.”

“Yeah, that’s what it sounds like we are.” Alan squeezes the chair’s arms. “Would you like a contract, Graeme? Would that make you feel safe?”

“I—” Graeme lets himself think about it. If anything, it’s like every other deal he’s struck, just— just maybe a little lopsided. Three knitted hats in exchange for whatever Alan wants to give him— it seems like a lot of trouble for Alan, but if Alan’s willing— “Yes.”

They end up pulling chairs to Clarissa’s desk and hashing the whole thing out. Alan is paying for Graeme’s medical expenses, including therapy and meds for his anxiety disorder, as well as a small weekly stipend — Clarissa had said ‘allowance’ at first but Alan had turned red again, and while Graeme found that fascinating, he also offered the alternative language to ease Alan’s blush — that will make up for the lost hours at Quix-Stop until Graeme is well enough, physically and mentally, to find another job. Graeme gawks at the stipend — it’s easily triple what he would have earned at the gas station — but Alan draws a firm line in the sand on it. He also puts in a phrase about providing anything else for Graeme that he sees fit, with the caveat that Graeme can reject the gifts if he wants.

In exchange, Graeme will provide Alan with a reasonable amount of knitted goods — starting with three hats — at Alan’s request. Graeme has the right to set the delivery date for said knitted goods, based on his current workload and how he’s feeling physically and mentally.

Should Alan want to pull out of the arrangement, he’ll continue the weekly stipend for 4 months while Graeme makes other arrangements.

Graeme hadn’t wanted that severance package written in there either, but only because it seems crazy to him, that Alan would want to give him that. He relents when Alan pushes back, and feels all the safer for it. It gives him this weird inner warmth, thinking about the safety precautions Alan is writing into the document.

They type it all out on Clarissa’s laptop, and she emails it to them, as well as printing a copy for them to sign. Alan writes his signature in blocky letters, that somehow don’t seem to fit him and do, at the same time. He pushes the document toward Graeme.

It’s the biggest deal Graeme has ever made in his life, there, in black and white. His heart is thudding. An unreasonable amount of safety awaits him if he signs. More financial, physical, and mental security than he could have even dreamed for, three days ago. The pen, resting on the signature line, starts to let out a little puddle of ink that spreads through the paper, and Graeme gulps, moving his hand through the motion of his name.

_There. There we go._

After Graeme adds his signature, Alan grins at him. “This feels like a cause for celebration. Want to grab a late lunch?” He stands, holding out his hand to help Graeme up.

Graeme pushes up from the chair and winces, holding his side for a second and groaning. He sinks back down.

“On second thought, let’s get you home. It’s probably time for ice, huh?” Alan sounds worried.

_Home._

“I’m— I’m okay—” he manages between waves of pain through his ribs. His hip is aching, too.

Alan digs the prescription ibuprofen bottle out of his messenger bag as Clarissa brings him a cup of water from her water cooler. She waits while Graeme takes the pills and swallows them, then sips slowly on the water. “It’s very hard to accept help when you’ve fought so hard to get where you are, Graeme,” she says quietly, calmly. “I’m proud of you for accepting Alan’s help. Just remember the reason Alan is helping: one, because you deserve help. You deserve a break. And two, because it helps _him._ Just something to think about, okay?”

He nods at her, pain subsiding a little. “I can try.”

“That’s all anyone can ask.” She pats his hand. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I could go lie on the couch for a few hours,” he says with a little laugh, trying not to jar his ribs.

Alan offers his hand again, and this time, Graeme reaches up to take it. They make their goodbyes to Clarissa and walk slowly to the elevator.

“Thanks. For the pills, and for the hand.”

“No problem. You should have had another dose an hour ago, I’m sorry we took so long in there. But it was necessary. I’m sorry you were feeling so insecure, though it’s completely understandable.”

“Yeah, no, it’s okay. It just kind of hit at once.” He leans against the elevator wall and closes his eyes.

“For me, too,” Alan says softly, and Graeme opens his eyes again to meet Alan’s.

Not the pain, Alan means. But this. This thing between them, that’s growing so rapidly, Graeme can’t identify it. A thread that’s getting stronger every minute, it seems like. It should scare him, probably. With the weight of the contract, folded in his back pocket, it doesn’t. That deal? That doesn’t include this. This is something they’re going to have to figure out on their own. He takes a deep breath.

He doesn’t know what to say back, so instead he reaches out. Alan’s body is warm beside him in the empty elevator, and he just... reaches out. Takes Alan’s hand. Lets his eyes fall closed again as he threads their fingers together, and doesn’t let go until they’re walking out onto the street.

 

It's a nondescript white pill.

Not that they would mark it with huge letters that say THIS PERSON HAS ANXIETY!!

Just a little white pill, sitting on the counter, next to a glass of water. From a bottle delivered by Hendrick last night.

_What if it doesn't work? What if you're permanently broken?_

Alan’s fingers thread over his, resting on the counter. It jolts him, in the good way. He looks up, fully expecting Alan's smile, and isn't disappointed.

He slips the pill between his lips and washes it down.

Alan pulls him into a hug, gently because of his ribs, like he's accomplished something huge.


	10. Pampering - Alan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a rough exam, Alan pampers Graeme.

“Hendrick, can you stop by the ramen place on the way home? We need some dinner and I think soup would hit the spot, yeah?” Alan glances over at Graeme, who looks tired from the medical check up with his own primary care physician. 

Graeme’s been improving by leaps and bounds over the last five days, so they had both figured the check up would go well. Instead, Alan’s doctor had been extremely worried about Graeme’s hip, and had requested extensive x-rays to confirm nothing’s broken. Turns out, nothing is, and honestly, both Graeme and Alan are glad the doctor decided to be rather safe than sorry, but the whole ordeal looks like it’s exhausted Graeme. 

Graeme, predictably, wrinkles his nose. Alan tries not to sigh over how adorable that face is. “Take out?” 

“Mr. Garry lives on take out, Graeme.” 

“Oh, I know,” Graeme says with a long-suffering sigh. 

“Don’t call me Mr. Garry, it makes me sound old,” Alan grumbles, and Graeme laughs at him. 

“How old  _ are _ you, anyway?”

“Just hit the big 3-0. It was...not as climactic as I was expecting.” 

“Something to look forward to, I guess,” Graeme murmurs. “But seriously, you should cook at home. It’s cheaper, and fresher, and healthier.” 

Alan offers him a smile. “Maybe you could teach me.”

“Maybe I could.” He blushes, and turns away, but reaches out for Alan’s hand again. 

Alan accepts it, winding their fingers together, letting Graeme rest even as he offers this small comfort. He’s come to be able to see when Graeme needs to be quiet and let others talk, and so he strikes up a conversation with Hendrick about his various birthdays through the years, the good, the bad. He smiles, thinking of Sam, and tells Graeme about her. 

“But don’t call her Samantha, or she’ll beat you up and not let you play on the  _ family _ GameCube even though it’s for the  _ family _ and not  _ just _ for Sam.”

Graeme snorts. “That sounds pretty specific.” 

“A long-standing family feud.” Alan scowls for effect. 

“I only hope you can work it out,” Graeme responds gravely, the sarcastic little shit. Alan can see the joke dancing in his eyes. 

“You’re a smartass, and I like that,” he declares, because he’s known throughout the land for having exactly zero chill.

“Yeah, he needs more smartasses in his life,” Hendrick calls from the front seat, ever the wing man. If he didn’t know better, Alan would think that Hendrick and his mom are conspiring together to get grandbabies out of him, even though they both already have some. “I’m not around him  _ nearly _ enough.”

Graeme leans over, the conspiratorial smirk on his face making Alan’s throat go dry. “We can put that in the contract if you want.” Graeme whispers it in his ear. “Will: make fun of Sugar Daddy.”

Alan feels his face blush, yet again, as he watches Graeme’s triumphant eyes. Oh, if only Graeme knew he was playing to one of Alan’s deepest, most secret kinks. The one he has never, ever told another soul about. 

“I’ll do it for free, even.” Graeme looks a little nervous at Alan’s reaction. 

“I’ll take you up on that,” Alan manages, as the car thankfully pulls to a stop. “Beef sound good? Anything you don’t like?”

“Not too spicy, beef is good.”

“You stay here and rest. I’ll get our food.”  _ And escape. _

 

When Alan comes back, loaded down with a couple of big paper bags full of take out, he finds Hendrick outside the car, scrolling through his phone. 

“You order the whole place?” he asks, a knowing smile on his face. 

So maybe when Alan looked at the menu, he'd imagined Graeme wanting to try everything. He didn't seem like he had much of an appetite, but he also had had a rough few days. Alan had decided to order everything off the app menu, along with the gigantic containers of soup. “Why are you out here?”

Hendrick nods at the interior of the car. “‘Cause he finally let himself fall asleep, and I didn't want to ruin it.”

Graeme’s teeth are sunk into his bottom lip as he sleeps, his head resting against the window of the car. Alan's arms itch to hold him. “Rain sounds?”

“Yeah, strangest thing.”

“Not so strange. White noise apps are huge right now.”

“He's a sweet guy.”

“Yeah.”

“You guys going to be okay?”

“I think so.”

 

Graeme doesn’t wake up until they’re in the elevator, halfway to his apartment. He’s cradled in Alan’s arms, which satisfies something primal inside Alan. When he wakes, he jolts a little, and Alan is quick to soothe him. “You’re okay. Do you want me to set you down?”

Graeme glances over at Hendrick holding the takeout bags, and nods. Alan tries not to feel disappointed, but he complies quickly, making sure Graeme is steady on his feet. As it is, Graeme leans against the elevator wall, rubbing his eyes. 

“Man, I was really out.” 

“You had to deal with a lot of poking and prodding, and you held up like a champ. I’m proud of you. Do you want to go straight to bed?”

Graeme wrinkles his nose — this has fast become one of Alan’s favorite expressions on him — and shakes his head. “I’ll never get to sleep. Besides, I think I’m experiencing a second wind.” 

He  _ does _ look perkier, which makes Alan’s heart warm. 

“Here you go, boss.” Hendrick hands off the bags as the doors open. “Have a good evening, fellas.” 

“Thanks, Hen,” Alan calls, giving him a nod before the elevator doors shut and take him back down. He and Graeme make their way down the hall. “I should get your phone synced with the deadbolt,” Alan murmurs as he touches the lock and it automatically opens because it senses his phone in his pocket. “Come sit at the island.”

“How many people are coming over to eat this?” Graeme asks as they begin to unpack the food. 

Alan shrugs. “We'll have leftovers.”

“If you're at work, can I— is it rude— can…”

Alan pauses in the middle of scooping up noodles with chopsticks, then just meets Graeme’s eyes, waiting for him to get through the question.

Graeme seems to calm himself with a few breaths. “If you're at work, can I still ask Hendrick to take me someplace?”

Alan’s eyes go wide. “Hey, shit, yeah, of course! It's not like I need him if I'm at work, and you shouldn't feel trapped here.”

“I don't.”

“Oh, good. Still. Sorry I haven’t set it up before. Here, unlock your phone for me, I'll put Hendrick’s info in, and set up the front door key.”

Graeme hands it over and eats another bite. He perks up in his chair. “Oh, hey, I just realized, I only took the pain meds getting up this morning. I’m a little sore now, but I think that’s just because of the exam. I could probably get away with just an ice pack before bed tonight.” 

There’s something in Alan’s heart that warms a little at seeing how much progress Graeme is making physically over a few short days. He knows it’s too soon to see an effect from the anxiety meds, but Graeme seems a little brighter, too.

“That’s awesome, Graeme.” He smiles at Graeme’s pleased blush. The thought that Graeme would make the sweetest little sub crosses Alan’s mind for probably the fiftieth time in five days, and he shoves it away.  _ Not what Graeme wants. _

Graeme seems to have more energy to fidget, too, Alan has noticed. Most of the time, Graeme’s knitting, but here, at dinner, he doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. He keeps taking his hair out of its ponytail, playing with it, and putting it back up. 

Alan finally has to laugh. “Is your hair bothering you?”

Graeme freezes mid-hair pull, and looks sheepish. “It’s too long. I was going to shave it all off the night— the night of the accident.” 

Alan reaches out and touches the half-tamed curls. “It’s a gorgeous color,” he murmurs, just to watch Graeme blush again.  _ Yeah, I bet there’s a praise kink buried in there, _ he thinks. 

“Thanks. It’s just,” Graeme shrugs, making a noise of frustration. “A lot of hair. Do you have clippers?”

“Yeah, for my beard.” Alan frowns, giving Graeme an appraising look. “What would you say about me calling my stylist and seeing if he’ll make a house call?”

“What, tonight?” Graeme’s eyes go wide. 

“Well, or tomorrow, whatever works best for Ivan. I bet he’d come over for me, though.” 

Graeme snorts. “Yeah, well, people have a hard time saying ‘no’ to you.”

“Not true,” Alan replies with a grin. “You should hear my mom. Oh, or my sister. They’re both really, really good at saying ‘no’ to me.” He pulls out his phone and stuffs some more edamame in his mouth. “Besides, if it makes you more comfortable, it’s worth whatever extra price Ivan wants to charge me. I can’t imagine you really want to go sit in a barber shop right now, anyway. Do you want a shave, too?” 

Graeme scratches at his chin. He does have some stubble, there. Nothing like Alan would grow in five days without shaving, but still. It makes his jawline all shadowed and appealing and  _ dammit, Alan, you said you were going to drop it— _ “It hurts to lift my arms that way,” Graeme admits quietly, and Alan’s heart pangs in guilt and sympathy. “So, yeah, if you’re paying, I guess let’s do the works?”

Alan nods, turning down to his phone to hide his blush. “I’ll call right now.” 

 

Ivan takes one look at Graeme, raises a knowing, perfectly manicured eyebrow at Alan, and sends Alan away while he ‘works his magic.’

“Okay, well. Just a couple of things?” At Ivan’s nod, Alan gets the rain sounds going through the house speakers again. 

Ivan, a professional, doesn’t even bat an eye, but Graeme gives him a small smile and a barely-audible, “Thanks.”

Alan is quickly coming to consider the white noise app one of his best purchases, though he still plans on releasing one with his own twist. He’s used it for Graeme every single day since he’s been here, and he’s actually been surprised to find himself relaxing to it, too. He leans in, whispering in Graeme’s ear. “No problem. I hope you can relax a little, let Ivan take care you. You deserve it.”  

He wants to lean in, press a kiss to Graeme’s pink cheek, and because he wants it so badly, he backs off, handing Ivan a sheet to throw over the floor to catch hair, and letting them be. 

Back in his home office, Artoo, who is slowly accepting Graeme’s presence, curls up in his lap, purring. He spends most of Graeme’s haircut petting her, and thinking about Graeme. Thinking about himself, and his sexuality, and what Graeme means to it. 

As Artoo drools against his shirt, he contemplates how Graeme makes him feel. They both know there’s something there, unnamed, between them, connecting them. Alan can’t deny how immensely satisfied he is whenever he sees Graeme pad around the apartment in his own pajamas, those adorable painted toe nails sticking out. Sure, Hendrick had gotten him some pjs from the store that first day, but Graeme seems to prefer wearing his. Alan often catches Graeme smoothing the soft cotton over his skin, like he likes the sensation. 

Oh, God, how Alan wants to explore sensation play with Graeme.

The thought of smoothing silk over Graeme’s skin, chasing it with a Wartenberg pinwheel, experimenting with hot and cold, passes through Alan's brain.

Alan’s face flames and he tries to shove the thought of Graeme’s writhing body beneath him, under his command, away. His mind wants to chase it, to go after the endorphin high that comes from pleasing his sub, and he shuts it down, pulling out his phone and distracting himself. 

 

“I’m not convinced this is my hair,” Graeme mutters, running his fingers through it, pulling at it, turning his head this way and that. “Are you sure it’s not, like, a trick mirror?”

Ivan laughs, brushing through Graeme’s hair and readjusting what his fingers had messed up. “You have  _ a lot _ of hair, which is why you have volume some guys would  _ die _ for. The color, too, is really nice, you have these natural highlights? But the weight of it all, I get why you would just want to shave it all off. That, however, would be a travesty, so I thinned it out for you, and gave you a fade. Should keep it from feeling like too much.” 

Alan is slowly dying, he’s fairly sure. The cut has completely transformed Graeme’s face, making him look edgier, more appealing, as if that’s possible. And now he’s shaved all smooth, too, his jawline defined and fresh. Alan wants to run his fingers through the messy little crop of waves on the top of his head, or over the fade, or over his skin.  _ Who wants sensation play  _ _ now _ _? _

The way Graeme looks up at him, as if asking his approval, shoots straight to his gut. And, embarrassingly, his dick, which actually takes interest for once. All because of the way Graeme’s eyes are on him. “You look great,” he manages, and Graeme beams. 

He pops up — and there,  _ there _ is proof that he’s feeling better, not needing help to get out of the kitchen chair — and hugs Ivan. “Thank you so much. It feels amazing. I love it.” He smiles at Alan again, then starts walking away. “I’m going to shower off all the little shaved hairs so I don’t go to bed scratchy.” 

Alan finds his wallet, and hands his card over for Ivan to use on his phone’s Square reader. Ivan eyes him with open amusement as they wait for the payment to process. “What?”

“You’re a goner,” Ivan replies, laughing. 

“Fuck you,” he grumbles, happily tipping Ivan 25% even though he’s a jerkface.


	11. Breakfast - Graeme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graeme and Alan grow closer, and talk more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I only promised "updates weekends" but I got used to posting on Wednesdays too. Last night was the annual senior award dinner and I got to play proud mama to all my kiddos earning thousands of dollars for post-secondary education, so have an update on Thursday instead. As well as one this weekend. :) Probably Sunday.

Graeme jolts awake at 3 am, his heart racing from an anxiety nightmare he can’t remember. For a few moments, it's like he can't breathe, and he's sure his heart has stopped, but then he finally manages to suck a breath in, and another. He's not dying, it just feels like it.

He hasn’t slept through the night since that first night after the accident, and he mostly blames that particular instance on the hospital drugs. This type of thing happens often; after a few moments, he's able to quell most of the panic, but now he's stuck awake, the adrenaline already in his system.

Stiff from bed, he sits up, does the breathing and coughing exercises that means he won’t get a collapsed lung, and finally admits defeat, slipping out from under the covers.

All the lights are off, which means Alan’s in bed. Of course he is, why would he be awake now? Still, Graeme’s disappointed. He sets up his phone to start playing a podcast and pulls out the hat he’d been working on. He’s nearing the top, almost ready to bind off. He hums, looking it over. Alan doesn’t want him to start on his hat order yet; he's been letting him finish this. But the rest of Graeme’s supplies are back at his apartment. He _could_ have Hendrick swing by there tomorrow on the way to the store to stock Alan’s kitchen with the necessary supplies that he’s honestly flabbergasted Alan doesn’t have.

But that leaves him without anything to do tonight, and his brain’s not functioning well enough yet to avoid spiraling. Which means this hat is all he has, which means he needs to frog it and start over if he wants something to do with his hands. Mentally, he shrugs. Easy enough to rip it all out and start something new; he’s done it before to conserve supplies.

The thing about ripping out a knitted piece is that the yarn, once it's all kinked up, is prone to knots. Graeme’s become somewhat of an expert in figuring out how to unravel the projects without tangles, so he starts, winding the yarn off on his fingers to make a new ball. Between keeping his hands busy, and the podcast, he gets immersed enough not to spiral into worry.

That’s also how Alan is able to sneak up on him, padding silently into the living room with his blanket wrapped around his shoulders. “Y’okay?” he asks, voice sleepy.

“Shit!” Graeme jolts, dropping the ball so that it rolls across the floor. “What are you doing up?”

Alan retrieves the ball for him, looking a lot younger and incredibly adorable in his tired state. “I heard voices, and saw the light, and I got worried. Y’okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay,” he answers, trying to give Alan a smile. “You can go back to bed.”

“Does this happen to you a lot?”

“Yeah. Being off my meds makes it worse.”

Alan sits down beside Graeme on the couch. “Well, hopefully it’ll go away soon then, huh?”

“Hopefully,” Graeme mutters, not exactly optimistic.

“Chin up, sweetheart. You’ll find something that works.”

If Alan notices that he used a pet name, he doesn’t make a big deal out of it. No, that seems to be the exclusive territory of Graeme’s brain and heart, both of which are thundering with emotion — and anxiety. “Go back to bed, Alan, you’re dead on your feet.”

Alan hums, but just leans back, making himself comfortable. “Or you could come cuddle.” He opens his blanket.

Graeme’s heart thuds in his chest. Maybe it’s the late hour, maybe it’s the fuzzy sleep in Alan’s eyes. Graeme feels exposed, vulnerable, wanting to give in.

In the seconds it takes Graeme to decide, Alan closes the blanket back up. “Sorry, I’m kind of a touchy-feely guy, and my filter is a little off right now.” He yawns.

“No— no, it’s okay. Um. When I was in high school, I had this friend, and we’d cuddle sometimes. Just...just to feel nice. Not like, sexy or anything.”

Alan grins a little at Graeme’s wrinkled nose. “It’s okay, I know those feels. Or rather, those lack of feels. But I’m still open, if you want to. Like with your friend.”

Graeme chews on his lip. “I’m probably not going to fall back asleep, I’ll make you uncomfortable.”

“Doubt you could. You forget, I’ve had you in my lap before. C’mere.” Alan opens his blanket again.

Where Graeme’s mind is unsure, his body is craving the touch, starved for it. He gathers up the yarn he’s working on and scoots over, letting Alan wrap the blanket around both of them.

“See, you feel good,” Alan murmurs, snuggling in, his chin on Graeme’s shoulder. “What’re y’doing with your hat? It was almost done.”

Alan’s breath is steadily blowing on his neck, and he wants to shiver and cuddle in deeper. It feels too good, wrapped up in Alan. He might never leave. “Unwinding it and starting over, just so I have something to do.”

“Why not just start with new yarn?”

“Yeah, um. Yarn is...an _expensive_ hobby.”

Alan grunts. “I get that. You should see my collectibles collection. My office is... well. Mal calls it a toy store. At least your expensive hobby creates useful items. I … have an addiction.”

“Admitting it is the first step.”

“Smartass,” he grumbles against Graeme’s neck sleepily.

“Go to sleep, Alan.”

“D’you need the podcast to keep from thinking?”

“No, it’s fine.”

“Put the rain sounds on, it’s okay. I can sleep through them.”

Acquiescing, Graeme turns on the rain sounds. In a matter of minutes, he can tell by the breathing behind him that Alan is asleep.

Sometime around 5:30, he starts to get sleepy again too, and curls up against Alan’s chest for a quick power nap before Alan has to be up for work.

 

“What colors do your niece and nephew like?”

“You don’t have to start on those, I told you.” Alan’s voice is muffled in the fridge.

“Yeah, but I want to. Seriously, it’s okay. Just tell me, what colors?”

Alan pauses while closing the fridge door to point at one of those holiday photo postcards like people get at Costco or whatever. “They look good here.”

Graeme adds cream to his decaf coffee and sugar to Alan’s, and walks the mugs over to the fridge to look. He turns, raising a brow skeptically at Alan as he passes off one of the mugs. “Okay, yeah, but here, they’re obviously wearing matchy-matchy holiday outfits. What colors do they _like?”_

Alan takes a slow sip of coffee, his cheeks red.

“Oh my god, do you not _know?”_

“I’m not a fashion plate!” he bursts out, waving a hand up and down his body. (He’s currently wearing a Wonder Woman tee and dark wash jeans that happen to look pretty fashionable, but Graeme doesn’t forget that he’s been wearing _Spider-Man pajamas_ for the last few days thanks to this guy.)

Graeme sighs heavily, a small hint of a smile on his face. “Well, I guess that makes shopping my stash easier, if I get to be less picky. Everything I have is from a thrift store, and some people donate _wacky_ stuff.” He sighs again, rubbing over the dull ache of his ribs. “Hopefully I can last. We’re going grocery shopping, too, and somehow I get the feeling Hendrick is going to make me sit at the front like an elderly person and wait while he carries everything.”

Alan frowns. “Why are you going all the way back to your place? There’s a yarn shop near my office, and a Whole Foods. Hey, you could swing by for lunch, and we could pick out colors together, and then you and Hendrick can go shopping.”

“Alan, I can’t afford one of those fancy places. Three hats, different colors? That’s several days of pay, the better part of a week, even. Remember, yarn is expensive.”

“So I’ll pay.”

Graeme purses his lips. “That’s not in the contract.”

Alan stops pouring cereal and looks up at him. “So?”

“So…” Graeme trails off, taking a sip of coffee to cover it up. “So why would you do that?”

Alan leans against the counter and sizes him up, making Graeme blush under the scrutiny. “The contract doesn’t say anything about which side should provide materials. However, for my niece and nephew, I only want the best. Since I, as the patron, have particular tastes for this project, I, the patron, should pay for the materials for my craftsman to work with.”

Graeme is stunned into silence. Alan just raises his eyebrow. “Suddenly I get why you’re extremely successful,” Graeme finally says. “You disarm your enemies with the whole cute, puppy thing, and then when they’re all underestimating you, you pull out that cool, authoritative voice and everyone just nods along.”

Far from looking hurt, Alan just grins. “So, are you going to be immune now that you’ve figured me out, or are you going to let me buy what you need?”

The thought of window displays of beautiful, soft, colorful yarn dance through Graeme’s head. “Do you have more pictures? Casual ones with their everyday clothing?”

“Oh yeah, for sure.” He pulls out his phone and sidles up close to Graeme’s stool.

They flick through the pictures as they eat breakfast, Alan laughing over photos and explaining what they had been doing to Graeme. They land on a picture of Alan, his nephew Eddie perched on his shoulders with a huge, partially toothless grin and a pirate’s hat.  “I took the whole family to Disneyland a few years ago, and I lost my nephew on Tom Sawyer Island, where the pirate stuff is? Luckily it’s an island, so, you know, one way in and out. Sam took this about 10 minutes after we found him. If you look in this shot, you can see the desperation in my eyes.”

Graeme laughs, but nudges Alan with his shoulder. “Poor uncle!”

“Scariest fifteen minutes of my life. And probably a hundred times worse for my sister. I felt awful, though.”

They go through some more of the kids, and Graeme pauses on one. Alan’s sitting on a couch, not the one in the living area of this apartment, and the kids are obviously in pajamas, so Graeme’s guessing it’s the sister’s place. Alan’s reading them a book, _The Golden Rule,_ from the title. Eddie is cuddled on his lap, and Madi is tucked into his side, helping him turn the pages. It’s the most warm, precious thing Graeme has ever seen. He swallows. “This is a good one. You should send it to me for a reference for yarn.” It’s a lie, totally, and Alan probably sees right through it, but he doesn’t say anything, just texts it to Graeme’s number.

Most of the photos are taken in and around a particular small suburban home. “My sister and brother-in-law’s place. They live down by Kent, so I make it down a lot. We have a long-standing family brunch date on Sundays. I’m going on Sunday, actually, or I was,” Alan answers when Graeme asks.

Graeme looks down at his cereal, pushing around the last few unappetizingly-soggy pieces. “You missed last Sunday. Because of me? We just stayed here and iced my ribs all day.”

“It’s okay. Everyone misses a Sunday every once and awhile. My parents are on a cruise this Sunday, so they won't be there.”

Graeme frowns. “And you’re going to miss another one because of me? Don’t let me stop you.”

“You could come with me.” Alan’s voice is quiet.

“Why would you want me to do that? Aren’t you— wouldn’t you be embarrassed?”

“By you?”

Graeme shrugs. “By me. By our age gap. By our arrangement. They’ll probably think we’re dating. That would be embarrassing for you.”

Alan’s brows snap together, the most upset he think he’s ever seen him. “Listen, I love my sister a lot, but she doesn’t get to judge me for who I’m dating, or not dating, as the case may be. And why the fuck would I be embarrassed to have you on my arm?”

He doesn’t know why Alan is upset, but he’s starting to feel it, too, rising within him. “Because I’m ten years younger than you! Because you’re a successful businessperson and I’m...a shit nobody who works — worked —  two jobs to live in a shit apartment and eat shit food. I am in no way your equal! They’re going to think I’ve got dirt on you, or something. Why the fuck else would you _be_ with me? And we’re not even together, anyway, probably. We have ‘something.’” He puts up his fingers to make the air quotes. “That’s it.”

“Back the fuck up. You’re not my _equal?”_ Alan’s arms cross over his chest, and he’s frowning, hard. “So I have more money than you, because I had a stupid idea that turned out to be brilliant, oh, and also I had two loving parents and grew up in a nice home in Bellevue, and I was lucky enough to have fairly good mental health and good physical health, and— and a lot of other fucking privileges. Bull _shit_ you’re not my equal. Give you those starting chances, and where would you be now? Probably running the world right by my side.” He clenches his hands into fists, holds them, and releases them. Graeme recognizes it as a tension-release method, and not a threat, especially when Alan lifts one hand and tenderly cups Graeme’s cheek. “Let me share that with you. And let me share you, with my family, at least.”

If Alan had said ‘you won’t embarrass me,’ or ‘no one is going to say anything,’ or some other convenient lie, Graeme would have turned him away. He knows it in his heart. Instead, he’s left wondering at this man before him, at how such a connection could be forged over the matter of less than a week.

He places his hands over Alan’s, and nods. “I’m going to be scared shitless,” he whispers.

“We can set a time limit, so you know how long you’ll be there. I’ll talk with Sam and Rick beforehand, about having a space where you can go and get your headphones in your ears and zone out if you need to.”

What he’s really saying is _I’ll make it safe for you,_ and Graeme is completely disarmed.

Before he can speak again, Alan takes his hand, looking vulnerable. “Listen, you— you should know, that my sister knows about you. And we don’t have to tell my parents anything, or whatever, but I kind of had — I kind of got triggered, seeing you on the ground, at the accident.”

Stunned, Graeme stays silent, not wanting to break the moment, break Alan's clear vulnerability.

“I called my sister in the hospital because I kept seeing you on the ground and flashing back to— back to Tommy, my friend from high school?”

“I remember. I’m so sorry, Alan.” Graeme wraps their fingers together more tightly.

Alan laughs humorlessly. “You’re the one that got hit, no need to be sorry. But yeah, I get you. Just. My sister knows about you, and about Tommy, and about our contract, and my whole hero complex thing, because I have to talk to someone, and Sam’s it for me.”

Graeme remembers Alan telling him ‘someone cares’ just a few days ago. Now, he can pay it back. “She’s not it. I’m here.”

Alan looks down at their joined hands, then picks them up, brushing a kiss over Graeme’s knuckles. It’s further than Alan’s ever gone before, except for maybe calling him sweetheart in the middle of the night, and it feels like electricity across Graeme’s skin.

An alarm goes off on Alan’s watch, breaking the moment, and giving Graeme time to blink, and steady himself, and think. By the time Alan has turned back to him, he feels a little steadier. “Meet me for lunch?” Alan asks, voice vulnerable.

“Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of people have told me the thought-spiral process makes sense to them, so I hope it comes across clearly to other people. Literally in the shower this morning, I had to readjust my bathmat because it had scooted to cover up the drain, and then it was all slippery, and so then I started thinking about what would happen if I fell, I would probably hurt myself (and I'd also fall in the litter box, ew) but the bathroom counter is also that direction so I might hit my head and need to go to the hospital for a concussion check and then I'd be one of those cases where someone hits their head and then they die later when everyone thought they were okay. 
> 
> And that was all in the span of like, the minute it took me to scrub up my hair. I hate my mind sometimes. But that's what it's like in there, and that's what I'm trying to get across with Graeme.


	12. Lunch and Yarn Date - Alan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graeme meets Alan for lunch, and they go yarn shopping. (Where can I get an Alan of my own, just to fund my yarn habit???)

**Graeme:** Just heading down to meet Hendrick   
    **Graeme:** Traffic looks shitty, we might be late

Alan looks eagerly over at his buzzing phone, already grinning.

Something changed this morning in the kitchen, he’s sure of it. Something about the _something._

This lunch could possibly, maybe, be considered a date. Maybe. He should maybe talk with Graeme about labels.

But that thought doesn’t deter this excitement building in his chest, excitement he knows is entirely there because he’s about to see Graeme. Laughing, he takes a smiling selfie and sends it to Graeme with a corny little “Can’t wait to see you!”

As expected, he gets a sarcastic response:

 **Graeme:** That’s because you’re not battling the traffic like Hendrick

Alan grins.

 **Alan:** Tell Hendrick to make sure his phone is connected to the car speakers

He spends the next few minutes giggling to himself as he makes the town car ‘talk’ to Hendrick and Graeme like it’s sentient. Graeme sends him a quick vid of Hendrick laughing his head off while the car’s system reads out Alan’s latest text in its robotic voice, “Oh Hendrick, you really know how to dot dot dot drive me wild exclamation point.” He catches a second of Graeme’s giggling behind the camera before the video cuts out.

He’s twirling in his office chair, writing out another text, laughing like a loon, when Mal catches him. He almost tosses his phone in the air. “Jeez, Mal, warn a person!”

“I did knock. Carrie wanted you to double check on the white noise project before you head out? I think she’s outlined what you wanted.”

Alan coughs, covering his red face. “Right, uh. I’ll be right there.”

He snaps one more selfie of that very embarrassed face before leaving his office.

    _Alan has sent a picture_   
    **Alan:** Mal caught me :(       
    **Graeme:** :laughing_face_emoji:

He’s waiting on the sidewalk by the time Hendrick pulls up, and leans over to tell Hendrick he’ll text when they’re done while Graeme gets out of the car, all by himself, not even wincing.

“You’re looking better every day,” Alan murmurs, offering his hand. His heart skips a beat when Graeme takes it. He wonders if he should warn Graeme that this might end up on the internet.

“Yeah, thanks! I feel good today, too. Like I might actually be able to shop, especially for yarn.” Graeme grins, swinging their hands a little.

“Food first, then yarn?”

“Sounds good.”

They settle on an Indian buffet that’s bustling with the lunch crowd, finding a corner table to themselves. Graeme’s quiet, which Alan has come to expect, and he fills the silence with stories of his morning, his coworkers. Graeme breaks in with sarcastic little remarks and jokes that always seem to take Alan by surprise, even though he knows Graeme’s humor well enough by now.

When Graeme can’t possibly stuff another piece of naan in his mouth, though he’s definitely tried, they head out, hand in hand still.

The yarn store, Ewe Got It!, is up off of the street level, but Alan pauses them on the sidewalk outside. “This is okay?” Alan asks finally, raising their hands a bit.

“Yeah.”

Alan chews his lip, both not wanting to know, and needing to ask, before they go any further. He has to know that Graeme doesn't feel obligated. “I just want it clear that this isn’t part of the deal in any way. Not on my side. This is,” he swings their hands in the space in between themselves, “I don’t know what this is. Is that okay?”

Graeme looks up at him intently, and Alan gets lost a little in his gray eyes. “We don’t have to know what this is right now, right? Just as long as we know it’s not part of the contract?”

“I’m okay with that if you are.”

“I want to go slow, but—” Graeme places a hand on his chest, and goes up on his tiptoes, so his lips are hovering in front of Alan’s. “But I also want to kiss you. Is that okay?”

Alan nods, but swings them inside the stairwell to the yarn shop. Damned if his first kiss with Graeme is getting paparazzi’d and made some big deal by the small pockets of the Seattle tech scene that don't know he's gay. Graeme looks confused, but then Alan is dipping his head, and Graeme is tilting up to meet him—

Graeme’s lips taste a little like curry, and Alan smiles into the kiss. His lips probably do, too, so hopefully that’s okay. There’s an underlying sweetness, though, that he thinks is all Graeme. Graeme lets his mouth slip open, and Alan sweeps inside, exploring, wanting to know Graeme inside and out, what makes him happy, what gets him excited.

With a huff of breath, Graeme pushes back, eyes dazed. “We— we should maybe go upstairs.”

“Yeah,” Alan agrees, and his voice is rough.

They climb a set of narrow stairs decorated with various pieces of knitted goods that Alan assumes Graeme recognizes. He notices that the stairs seem to aggravate Graeme’s hip a little, but Graeme just smiles when he asks about it.

“Feels good to work them, actually.”

He wants to do it for himself, and Alan respects that, lets him be.

In the shop, they’re immediately greeted by a cheerful worker. “How can I help you two?”

Graeme pulls out his phone, and shows the worker a picture. “Hi, I’m knitting hats for a couple of kids with this pattern.”

“Oh, that’s lovely. Looking for fingering, then?”

 _Wait, what?_ Alan looks straight at Graeme. Graeme gives him _the eyes,_ like his mom is good at, and elbows him in the ribs. “Yeah, fingering.”

“Now, for kids, you might want to bump up to sock, see, you can, on this pattern? Just because sock’s going to give you a little more durability for kids who play rough. Have you done cabling before?”

“I have, just a little.”

The woman and Graeme begin to walk away, and Alan can’t see himself being helpful, so he makes himself comfortable at a table near the window, pulling out his phone and answering emails. He listens, though, as Graeme opens up to the worker, Angie, telling her all about his past projects and the content percentages he’s worked with in the past, and what might be best for this.

Alan considers himself a smart person. It’s like they’re speaking a foreign language, though. It is entirely possible, though he won’t admit it to himself later, that he spaces out thinking about _fingering_ instead.

“You know, we have a handwork group that meets on Tuesday nights.”

Angie’s voice has moved nearer, and Alan jolts back into the conversation.

“You’d be welcome to join us. We’re always looking for more people. Mostly we just meet and talk and knit, but if you need help on a pattern or a new technique, there are people there for that. Or if you have stuff you want to show off, that kind of thing.”

“Yeah?” Graeme seems cautious, like he wants to be excited about it, but won’t let himself be. Alan vows to himself to make sure he gets a chance to come to the group.

She smiles. “Like I said, we’d love to have you.”

“I work— I worked night shift, and I’ll probably start that again soon, but maybe.”

_Oh. Right._

How is it possible that Graeme already seems like a much more permanent addition to his life?

“Awesome. I love your color choices here. Would you like me to cake it for you?”

“Yes, please.”

Alan is mildly disappointed that ‘caking it’ apparently does not involve cake, but just winding the yarn into a ball. He loves the colors Graeme picked out — a bright purple for his niece, and a kelly green for Eddie. Attention drawn back to Graeme, he sees him wander around the store, looking longingly at the yarn they probably hadn’t looked at before. Alan wonders if he knows how much desire shows on his face. Quietly, he walks over, hovering behind Graeme, drawn to him.

He watches Graeme’s fingers brush over something soft and fluffy and orange before he notices Alan’s presence.“Feel this,” he murmurs, and picks up the skein to brush it against Alan’s cheek.

Alan hums, reminded of the way Graeme likes to wrap himself in Alan’s pajamas. He wonders if Graeme has experienced much soft in his life. “That’s nice.”

“I’ve never found anything like this at the thrift stores.”

“What would you make with it?”

“A scarf, probably. Imagine this tucked up under your coat as you walked home.”

“My neck would never be cold again,” Alan says with a smile.

“Precisely.” He looks at the price tag and sighs a little. “I really love this orange.”

Alan holds it up to his face now. “Just what I thought, it brings out the gray in your eyes.” His heart sings as Graeme blushes and laughs.

“Ridiculous. This from the guy who, just this morning, reminded me he’s not a fashion plate.”

“Well, he’s not wrong, in this case,” Angie calls out from across the shop. “You want me to add that to your tab?”

“No,” Graeme says quickly, putting it back. “No, just those three, thanks.” He turns away, like if he doesn’t look at it, he won’t be tempted.

Alan, though, glances back over his shoulder, and memorizes the location of the yarn.

 

On the street, Alan tugs at his hand. “I had no idea knitting was so _dirty.”_

“What are you, a teenager? Fingering refers to the _weight_ of the yarn. It means really tiny, by the way, so you’re really getting your money’s worth from me.”

Alan looks at him, like he’s about to burst.

“What?”

Same face.

_“What?”_

“I really, really want to make a dirty joke, but I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“Oh. My. God. You actually _are_ a teenager.”

“Hey, you know what they say, age is just a number. You’re going to have to be the mature one in this rela— uh, thing, I think.”

Graeme sighs heavily for affect and rolls his eyes. “Go on, then.”

“Well, now the moment’s lost. But something something, looking for fingering, I’ve got three fingers right here, baby, something something.”

Graeme stares at him for about five seconds before he bursts into laughter, holding his ribs as they ache, and punching Alan lightly in the stomach. “You are so _bad.”_

Alan just grins as he texts Hendrick that they’re done.

 

When Alan gets home that night, the cats come greet him, both as if they came straight from the couch, where Graeme is ensconced. He goes through his greeting routine with them, telling them how pretty they are, picking them up, kissing and petting them. When he comes over to the living room area, leaning on the door jam, Graeme smiles up at him.

It strikes him, right between the eyes, how homey the scene is. Graeme cuddled up on the couch with his knitting, his cats obviously cuddled up with him less than a minute ago. It’s soft, and significant, the look Graeme shares with him.

“Hi,” Alan says, and he’s breathless, for some reason.

“Hi.” Graeme sounds the same way.

He moves to the couch, leaning over, sweeping back Graeme’s bangs and placing a kiss on his brow. “That felt right,” he murmurs.

“It felt right to me, too,” Graeme admits softly.

Alan blinks and straightens, pulling off his wet rain jacket. “Hendrick said you guys got fixings for quesadillas?”

“Yeah, let me just—” Graeme starts to push himself up.

“Oh no, you stay right there. I’m under strict orders from Hendrick to learn how to make these myself. He said ‘even I’ can do it. I was highly insulted.” He grins at Graeme’s laugh, always happy to hear it. “I think I can manage. I’m sure there’s like, a video or something. You look comfy, stay there.”

“If you insist,” Graeme replies with a grin. “Come check this out, though.” He holds out the partially-knitted hat for inspection.

“Well, I guess this means you’re working for me, huh? Now, I have to ask, because otherwise I’m going to get in trouble with the labor department, did you take adequate breaks? Have safety precautions been followed? Do you feel you have satisfactory working conditions?”

“I might speak to my manager about my coworkers. They keep trying to eat the yarn.”

“I think we have to report ourselves to HR, too,” Alan whispers, brushing his lips over Graeme’s.

This thing between them, it’s heavy, and significant, but it’s not a burden. At least, that’s what Alan thinks. He hopes Graeme feels the same way.

He lets Graeme get back to work, kicks off his shoes, and heads to the kitchen. Whistling, he queues up a video on quesadillas, and hears Graeme’s burst of laughter from the couch.

“I thought you were _joking.”_

“Hey, don’t make fun of someone who’s learning.”

There’s silence from the living room, but when Alan glances back, Graeme’s smiling as he knits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kissing, eh? ^.^
> 
> Guys I adopted a kitten and his name is Rai and he is the most adorable thing in the world and I just need you all to know that. :)
> 
> https://animalasaysrauer.tumblr.com/post/174131118791


	13. Sleeping Together - Graeme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graeme has a rough night ahead of meeting Alan's family.
> 
> Please note: The tag "mentions of past abuse" has been added.

It’s a really, really bad night. Of course, it makes sense that Graeme can’t sleep, that every time he starts to drift off, his body jolts him awake again. Tomorrow’s Sunday, and he’s meeting Alan’s family. As much as Alan tries to brush it off, Graeme was never going to be able to be chill about it. That’s just Graeme’s reality.

He pushes out of bed; it’s only 11, Alan might still be awake. No lights in the living room, but...there is a faint glow coming from underneath the door to the master bedroom. Taking a deep breath, he knocks softly on the partially open door.

“Come in?” Alan sounds confused, his voice all cute and sleepy.

He pushes the door open farther, and smiles a little. Alan’s glasses are crooked, and there’s a book on his chest, like he fell asleep with the light on, reading. He is an adorable human being, and Graeme kind of can’t believe they have a...whatever this is. Relationship of some kind. “Sorry,” Graeme whispers, padding inside, though he’s not, not really.

“S’okay. What’s up?” Alan removes his glasses and scrubs over his face.

Graeme picks at the bottom of the pajama shirt — Iron Man, this time. “I was— I can’t sleep. Nervous about tomorrow. I was wondering if I could maybecuddlewithyouagain.”

Alan automatically scoots over, and lifts up his comforter. “Come on in, sweetheart.”

Graeme hurries into the warmth, cuddling up close. Alan’s arm comes around his shoulders, and Graeme leans his head on Alan’s chest, listening to his breathing. “I like it when you call me that, here in the dark. In the middle of the night.”

Alan’s hand trails over the nape of his neck. “I like calling you that. Here. In my bed.”

“What— what are we doing, Alan?” His fingers trace over Alan’s cloth-covered stomach, enjoying the soft roundness that hides the strong muscles beneath. His appreciation for Alan’s body seems to grow every day. He imagines lifting Alan’s shirt, pressing kisses to that stomach, feeling Alan stutter and flex under his ministrations.

He wonders if Alan would want that or not, given his asexuality.

“Whatever we want, at whatever pace we want, and no one can tell us otherwise.”

Graeme laughs softly. “You make it sound easy.”

“Not easy,” Alan corrects. “Worth it.”

Graeme lets that sink in, still making little symbols on Alan’s stomach. “With your ace thing, how do you feel about kissing? I probably should have asked before I, um. Leaned in yesterday.”

Alan chuckle is quiet and light. “I’ll make you a promise that I’ll let you know if anything we do pushes my boundaries. I mean, mostly, just. If you expect… I don’t get hard a lot? Like, so if you want to be fucked, we’re going to have to go through my toy collection for scenes. Or invest in some more.”

Graeme chokes on a shocked cough. “No, no— I wasn’t thinking about—”

“You’re cute when you blush, you know.” Alan brushes a kiss over his forehead. “I like kissing. Especially kissing _you._ I’ll let you know if we start to do something I don’t want to do. I expect the same from you, okay?”

Graeme turns his head and meets Alan’s eyes. “Deal.” He pushes himself up a little higher, and presses a chaste kiss to Alan’s lips.

Alan hums in pleasure, the vibration buzzing against Graeme’s lips. “Do you want to get the light for us?” he murmurs, his fingers still stroking through Graeme’s hair.

“Mhmm.” Graeme rolls — and even that motion is so much easier now, it’s amazing — and flicks off the light. When he comes back to Alan’s arms, Alan’s fiddling with his phone.

“Take a look at this.” Alan angles the phone to show him an app. “White noise app, with a couple of new features. On your rain sounds album, you can’t really control the volume as you go, like if you fall asleep. This has a sleep mode, so it slowly fades over an hour, or several, depending on what you want. Also, you can record your own sounds. Like, if you have a certain fan or whatever that you always use, you can record it in here and use it.”

Graeme takes the phone, exploring, then looks back at Alan in wonder. “Did you … make this for me?”

It’s hard to see Alan’s blush in the dim light, but it’s there. “Well, I just jotted down some ideas. It’s really Carrie’s project, and also, this is like, rough rough rough draft. Like. Not even alpha testing. Most of this is just the cosmetic stuff. The actual features will take a lot longer. But that’s the idea, anyway.”

Graeme hands the phone back, then maneuvers himself so he can take Alan’s face in his hands and kiss him _a lot_ more thoroughly. When he pulls back, he grins at Alan’s dazed expression. “That is probably the sweetest thing anyone has done for me.”

Alan shrugs. “Just, I had an idea, and I went with it.” He looks embarrassed, so Graeme kisses him again.

“Thank you.” He settles back into Alan’s embrace and lays his head on his chest again. “G’night, Alan.”

Alan’s fingers rub over the nape of his neck. “G’night, sweetheart.”

 

Graeme only lasts until about four, but it’s a pleasant four-ish hours of sleep, wrapped in Alan’s arms. He slips out quietly, scritching Artoo and Threepio on the head before padding out to the living room to knit.

He shouldn't be worried about meeting Alan’s sister; he knows this, logically. Spirals follow no logic, however, and this one starts so innocently with “What if I say something stupid?”

He _knows_ better than to play any “What if?” games. They're his anxiety’s favorite way to kill time, though.

Somehow his brain is on “What if Alan’s sister convinces him that I'm just a grifter, a con artist, and he breaks the contract and cuts me off and I can't find more work and I end up at a shelter and I can't afford my meds and end up too non-functioning and they commit me and—” three hours later, when he notices Alan’s face hovering in front of his.

He blinks, biting down hard on his lip in hopes of keeping the crazy reigned in. Alan seems to notice, slipping down on the couch beside him, and holding his arms open.

In a flash, Graeme crawls into his lap, resting his head on Alan's shoulder. Threepio joins them, purring under Graeme’s ministrations.

“You want to talk about it?”

Graeme shakes his head fiercely.

“That's okay, you don't have to.” He smooths Graeme’s bangs out of his forehead. “I’m sorry your brain traps you like this.”

 _“I’m_ sorry.”

“No need to apologize, sweetie.” Alan squeezes him close. “Is there something I can do? When you’re spiraling?”

“Distraction.”

“What kind?”

“Any kind. Nudge me. Call my name. Put my earbuds in. Anything to stop the cycle.” He runs his finger over the design on Alan’s sleep shirt. “Pain works, too,” he adds quietly.

Alan’s hands don’t stop stroking over him, but they do pause for a split second. “Can you tell me more about the pain? If you want. If it would be triggering, no need.”

“Just another tragic backstory,” he mumbles, scratching over Threepio’s ears. He purrs, and marks him with his cheeks. _You’re mine now,_ the cat says, plain as day.

“Doesn’t mean I’m not interested in it. If you feel like telling me. Just know that I would never use pain to bring you out of a spiral. It’s clear you can’t consent when you’re away like that, and I wouldn’t want to send you deeper.”

Graeme’s brow furrows. “What does pain have to do with consent?”

“For some people, pain is the perfect gateway to their subspace. When someone wants to do an impact play scene, we discuss preferred types of hitting and go over the implements beforehand. Depending on how well I know my sub, I might surprise them, if we’ve talked about surprises beforehand.” Artoo jumps up on Alan’s shoulder, and he rubs his cheek against her side. She’s visibly vibrating with happiness.

“That’s a lot of talking.”

Alan shrugs. “I like talking,” he says with an easy smile. “I like listening.”

Graeme’s fingers sink into Threepio’s fur. “My mom had this boyfriend once that would slap me when I was spiraling.” He lifts a shoulder, tries to be nonchalant. “That’s not the type of pain you’re talking about.”

“It’s not. I’m not going to do that, ever, okay? That’s abuse, and I’m so—” Alan bites down on his lip, cutting himself off. “I’m sorry that’s in your past. I will never, ever use pain to get you out of a spiral.”

Graeme leans down to place a kiss on Threepio’s head, feeling the vibration of his purring on his lips. “Thanks,” he whispers.

Alan's hands are stroking over his back, his lips pressed into Graeme's hair. He keeps murmuring soothing words, about how Graeme is good and strong and amazing, unbelievable stuff like that. It works, though, and Graeme can feel his pulse start to steady out.

He still feels jittery, like he's downed twenty shots of espresso, but Alan’s touch feels so soothing. He burrows in deeper, breathing in Alan’s scent, letting Alan overwhelm his senses. “You’re really good at this,” he whispers.

Alan’s fingers are playing with his hair, scratching lightly, like he’s petting one of the cats. “I wonder how different it is, chemically, from the drop people can experience after a scene without proper aftercare.”

“Hmm?”

“There’s an endorphin/adrenaline crash that can happen after you play. Aftercare helps, because it lets you come down slowly without crashing. It also restores the power balance between the Dom and the sub, because the Dom essentially serves the sub, like the sub might have served the Dom during the scene.” Graeme can feel Alan’s smile against his forehead. “I like it, because I get to take care of my sub, and you know how much I like taking care of people.” He squeezes Graeme, and Graeme allows himself to smile, too.

“Well, the adrenaline, I get. Not the endorphins, though.”

“No fair,” Alan murmurs against his skin.

Graeme snorts a little. “Yeah.” He traces his finger over Alan’s pajama top. “What’s aftercare like?”

“There’s lots of cuddling. Like, _a lot.”_

“I like it already.”

“Right? There’s hydration, too, and refueling. Something sweet, to help with the hormones. Fruit, or chocolate. Maybe Gatorade, maybe just water. Depends on what my sub likes. I clean us up, too, apply any balms or anything needed. I wrap them up in a blanket, and we rest someplace soft.”

“Where’s my chocolate, then?”

Alan laughs. “Smartass.”  

They settle into a comfortable silence, Graeme letting his eyes slip closed as he syncs his breathing with Alan’s.

“It’s today, isn’t it? What’s got your brain spiraling, it’s going to see my family?” Alan asks eventually. “Can I do anything to help? We don’t have to go.”

Graeme grunts. “And if I don’t go, I’m letting my anxiety win.”

“Don’t think of it like win and lose.”

“They’re going to hate me.” Graeme braced himself to hear the standard logical reply, _‘They’re not going to hate you.’_

“Sam is unreasonably protective of me. She might come off a little prickly. It’s not you. She’s done it to all of the boys I’ve brought home. You’re not special.” He grins, and Graeme has to grin back. He’s so fucking charming.

“That’s actually a relief.”

“They don’t even have to know that we’re…”

“Sleeping together?”

Alan laughs. _“Literally_ sleeping together, yeah. That we’re a thing, whatever this thing is, if you don’t want, okay? We can go in as it was — that I’m helping you get back on your feet after the accident. That your apartment was inappropriate for your injuries.”

Graeme chews his lip, thinking it over. “If you’re not— not embarrassed by me, then… we could tell, maybe.”

Alan lifts Graeme’s chin and sweeps a kiss over his lips. He lingers on the lip Graeme had just been worrying, nibbling at it a little himself. “I’m not embarrassed by you, baby.”

Graeme flushes and shudders.

“You really do like those pet names, huh?” Alan’s voice is soft, seductive.

Graeme makes an unintended sound in his throat, almost a whimper. “Yeah,” he says, breathless.

“Me, too.” One of Alan’s hands splays over his back, scooting him closer, but minding his ribs. He meets Graeme’s eyes, a small grin playing over his lips, and kisses him again.

And again, and again. Graeme loses track of how long they stay like that, making out, feeling over each other’s bodies. It forces anything but Alan out of his brain, one of the better remedies he’s ever tried for anxiety.

If only he could take a miniature Alan in his pocket to keep him calm when he’s out of the sanctuary of this apartment.

The thought makes him giggle, which has Alan pulling back with a quizzical brow, prodding the thought out of him. “You’re silly,” Alan concludes with another kiss. “I like that about you.”

Graeme blushes and ducks his head, and Alan presses a kiss to his heated cheek.

“And you’re sweet. I like that about you, too.” Alan keeps pressing light kisses over his face, and Graeme feels himself heating up more. “Are you embarrassed, or happy?” he whispers into Graeme’s ear.

“Both, I think?” Graeme locks eyes with Alan again. “I like you, too. You pay attention. I’m not used to someone paying attention.”

“You’re worth paying attention to. Never forget that, Graeme.”

Graeme presses his hot cheek to Alan’s, pulling him in for a tight hug. “We should probably get going,” he says regretfully.

Alan looks over at the wall clock and groans. “Yeah. My sister’s always teasing me about being late.”

 

Hendrick gets weekends off, so Alan’s driving, a first for Graeme. When Alan leads them to a sleek silver Tesla Model X down in the parking garage, Graeme’s jaw just about drops. Sitting on the inside, running his fingers over the details — it’s the most indulgent Graeme has ever felt. The ride is so smooth that he can pull out his knitting for the drive down to Kent.

Alan keeps the conversation between them easy though not necessarily light, about favorite foods — Alan: “I’m a basic bitch. Tacos.” Graeme: “Um. I like pasta?” — and least favorite subjects in school, and eventually, growing up. It feels like Graeme shouldn’t be okay with talking about the trailer park, talking about his dad’s suicide and his mom’s...whatever. Alan reaches over the console to take his hand, and he lets him, threading their fingers together and taking comfort where it’s given.

“So you...found him?” Alan asks, paying close attention to the road, but running his thumb over Graeme’s knuckles.

Graeme blows out a breath. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry, Graeme.”

Graeme offers a shrug. “It happened long enough ago, I should be over it.”

Alan chews on his lip. “I— well. I don’t know about that. I’m not over Tommy, obviously.”

It’s Graeme’s turn to sweep his thumb over Alan’s hand in comfort.

“The police came around, I’m sure you know, they do their investigation, they came around to inform my parents, I guess, I don’t know. Asked me questions about what I knew about his dad. I wasn’t supposed to see the picture, but— I happened to find myself alone with the police folder, and I just— stupid teenage curiosity, I guess.”

“You had to be sure,” Graeme murmurs. “You had to know.”

“Yeah,” Alan lets out on a breath. “I had to know if it was really happening.”

Graeme pulls his hand up for a kiss. “I’m sorry, hon— Alan.”

“You can call me honey, if you want. I like it.” A small smile creeps on Alan’s face.

“I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have had to see that. You should have— I should have— it just shouldn’t happen.”

“I’m not going to say it’s okay. Obviously it’s not. A lot of therapy got me through the PTSD, but— sometimes it’s still there. Like when I saw you laying out on the pavement. Thought you were dead, just like Tommy.”

“I’m here. I’m alive.”

“Damn right you are. And you’re not Tommy. I know that. Just— just so you know. You’re not, like, a replacement for my long lost love or something.” He pulls their hands over, and gives them his own kiss.

“Well, I wasn’t actually worried about that, but now I am, so thanks.” Graeme laughs humorlessly. “That’s my brain for you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s just being stupid. I’ll try to forget it. No promises.”

“I’ll try to reassure you.”

“That’s not your job,” Graeme protests.

“What if I want it to be my job?”

“Why the hell would you want to reassure me all the time?”

“Because you turn the prettiest shade of pink when I compliment you. It’s lovely. And hot. And totally natural, you have a praise kink and it’s a beautiful thing.”

“You think I…have a kink?”

“I’d be willing to bet you have more than one,” Alan says with a wink in his direction. “I love praise kinks. It’s so easy to fluster you and make you happy, which makes me happy, et cetera.”

“So I’m easy?” Now Graeme grins, predicting what Alan’s going to say next.

“Smartass.”

“You know, that’s starting to feel like a compliment. You might want to cool it in public if you really think I have a praise kink. You’ll get me all excited.”

Graeme is teasing, but Alan chews his lip, lifting a shoulder in a small shrug.

“What?” Graeme asks.

“I don’t exactly...have a thing against cooling it in public, per se.”

“Really?”

“I— look, okay, I haven’t had a serious boyfriend basically since I started getting more into the kink scene, so I haven’t— I’ve mostly only played at parties. I... _like_ that aspect.”

“What if we’re not compatible, that way?” Honestly, Graeme has never really thought about it, not since he’d stopped having sex for deals. He’s never thought about public sex, never knew more about kink than he’d picked up in passing, nothing about the negotiations or the consent or any detail about it. He glances over at Alan, thinking. For once, not spiraling, but actually thinking about Alan having sex with him with other people watching. His initial reaction is ‘it’s weird’ but not… ‘hard no’ weird.

Alan’s hand squeezes his. “So we keep to making out and whatever. Vanilla stuff. Whatever you're comfortable with.”

“But you want to...do more than vanilla stuff with me.”

“If you were interested, yeah, I’d love to try some kink stuff with you. But I want whatever makes you happy.”

“But kink makes _you_ happy.”

 _“You_ make me happy.”

Graeme looks down at his knitting, cheeks hot. “I’m curious,” he practically whispers.

“Curious is a good place to start.”

“But I’m nervous. I kind of want to see you...do it with someone else before I try?”

“You’d want to watch me do a scene with someone else?” Alan cocks a brow at him.

“I’m not...adverse to the idea. Are you?”

“I mean, it makes sense. Kind of like I’m auditioning for you.”

Graeme laughs a little when Alan winks. “More like I want to see what someone else is supposed to act like when they’re...is having sex the right term?”

“Playing is better. I generally don’t get off.”

“Right.”

“You don’t have to act a certain way or anything. Like I said, vanilla is fine, if that’s what we want to do, when, you know, we get there.”

“Don’t count me out,” Graeme says stubbornly, and Alan’s eyes widen in appreciation.

“Okay, I won’t.” He pulls Graeme’s knuckles up for a kiss. “Okay. So you want to watch me play with someone. I think that can be arranged. I’ll check Fetlife, but I think there’s a munch on Thursday and an event on Friday, both at places I’ve been before. I’m sure I can find someone who’d like to play.”

“And they won’t mind that I want to watch?”

“Well, that’s the point of an event, sweetheart. You’re there because you want people to watch.”

“And you like people watching.”

“Oh yeah. I think it’s less about me, and more about loving to work with subs that like showing off. That’s a big thing for some subs, showing others how good they’re being for their Dom. I like that aspect, too.”

“I kind of want to listen to you talk about this stuff for hours. It’s fascinating, and I didn’t know anything about it.”

Alan grimaces. “I’d love to, anytime, except, well—” He pulls to a stop in front of a small suburban house.

Graeme blanches. “We’re here? Already?”

“You’re going to be amazing, okay? It’s going to be fine, and you have an exit strategy if you need one, and I’ll be there.” Alan grips his hand, and Graeme looks over to meet his eyes. He can feel his heart rate start to pick up. It’s too soon for the meds to really be working yet. He’s probably going to spend the morning in a low-grade panic attack.

He takes a deep breath, and nods determinedly at Alan, pushing the car door open. “Okay, let’s rip the bandaid off.”


	14. Meeting the Family - Alan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graeme meets the family - it goes...well, it goes.

Keeping a careful eye on Graeme, Alan takes his hand. It’s as much a declaration as whatever he’ll tell Sam later about their relationship, and besides, Graeme looks like he needs the bolstering. Squeezing their fingers together, he pushes open the front door without bothering to knock. “Sam, it’s me—” 

“Uncle Alan!” come two screams, and then the twins Eddie and Madi appear in the front entrance. 

“Uncle Alan, Uncle Alan, you hafta come see our racetrack! We built it so big!” Eddie tugs on his hand. 

“Well, that sounds like something I do need to see, yes. But first, do I get a hug?” This is hit or miss; Eddie’s been in a bit of a no-hug phase, and Alan’s not about to force him to submit to touching he doesn’t want. True to form, instead, Eddie taps his knee while Madi hugs his side, and they both spare a curious glance over at Graeme. 

“Eddie, Madi, this is Graeme, Graeme, my niece and nephew.” 

“C’mon, Uncle Alan, you hafta see the race track!” Now both Madi and Eddie are pulling on his hands. 

Alan lets himself be pulled, nodding at Graeme to follow along. Graeme looks extremely nervous, so Alan tries a wink. It makes Graeme blush, but he starts to move, following them, and Alan claims that as a victory. 

They’re just sitting down on the floor to play with the kids when Rick steps into the kids’ play room, wiping his hands on a towel. “Of course they brought you straight in here. Sam ran to the store, because I forgot butter last time, and we can’t make Dutch babies without obscene amounts of it.” He smiles down at Graeme. “Hey, you must be—”

Graeme pops up, holding out his hand. “Graeme Webster!” Alan can see the wince of pain that the sudden movement brought on flash across his face. 

“Well, Graeme, you can stay here with these goons or you can come be an adult in the kitchen. We have mimosas.” 

Alan winces internally as Graeme’s face flushes a bright red almost immediately. “Oh, um, I’m— I’m not 21 for another month.” 

“You think I can’t make a virgin mimosa?”

“Wouldn’t that just be … orange juice?” Graeme asks timidly. Alan can practically see his pulse beating in his throat. 

“Exactly!” Rick says with a big, booming laugh. He claps a hand on Graeme’s back, but Alan notices it’s an extremely gentle move. He smiles appreciatively. Rick’s good people. 

“Oh, um. Yeah, I could use some orange juice. Please.” 

“Same for me, please, Rick. Champagne gives me migraines,” he says casually to Graeme. 

 

The twins pull Graeme into their game, too, though Graeme seems uncomfortable around them. It’s hard for Alan to tell if it’s because he’s just uncomfortable in general with the whole situation, or whether it’s children specifically. Madi doesn’t give up, though, pressing Graeme into playing make believe with the race cars. There’s some narrative thread that she’s crafted; probably a story she’s been working on for days, and Graeme looks a little dazed taking it all in. 

“Hey, Alan!” comes his sister’s voice from the kitchen. She must have slipped in the side door. “Come help me with the Dutch babies.”

It’s not a request. Alan glances at Graeme, to double check he’s all right, and Graeme gives him the tiniest nod. Rick nods too, a nonverbal ‘I’ll keep an eye on him.’ That’s the best he can wish for, he figures. 

“Grease the pan for me, won’t you?” Sam drops a kiss on his cheek — she’s only a couple of inches shorter than him. “Hey.” 

“Hey.” They fall easily into the routine of making Dutch babies — something their parents made for Sunday breakfast once a month or so growing up. 

“He’s young.”

Alan bristles as he slices open a lemon. “You haven’t seen him yet.”

“Richie sent me a picture. Oh, don’t give me that face, Al. I have a right to be curious.” 

“And Graeme has a right to privacy and not assume that pictures are being snapped of him in a private home.”

“You’ve seen the pictures of you and him at the Indian restaurant, right? What did the headline say? Something about you playing for both sides, so everyone has a chance now?” 

“Don’t read that shit.” He  _ hadn’t _ noticed any new pictures. He suspects Mal has been shielding him. He makes a mental note to strategize with them regarding the pockets of the Seattle tech world that will be uncomfortable with him dating a man. If he has to cut ties, so be it, he's made enough of a name for himself now.  


“I’m just saying, he’s young.”

“You met Rick when you were 22.”

“He was also 22.”

“I just— I just want to see where this goes, okay? I like Graeme, a lot. We’ve known each other for a week. I’m not going to, like, declare my everlasting love. We’re just...trying things on for size. Can’t I do that without my sister crawling down my back?”

Sam pours the batter into the pan and slides it into the oven. “Yes,” she admits quietly. 

“Thank you.” 

“I just—” 

Alan sighs. “Yes?”

“You’re my baby brother.” 

“Believe me, I have been made well aware of that fact my entire life.” 

“You’ve seen some shit.”

“So has he,” Alan murmurs. 

“I just don’t want you to get hurt. That’s it.” 

“I’m not going into this to get hurt.” 

“No one ever does.”

“Right, and sometimes, people even end up happy.” Alan taps the Christmas card of his sister’s family, a copy of the one he has on his own fridge. “How am I going to get here, if I don’t open myself up to the possibility — _possibility,_ mind you, it’s not even a guarantee — of pain?”

“Why him? You’ve been getting more and more closed off over the last few years. Why now?”

Alan laughs. “I don’t know, since when is my heart logical? Since when is  _ anyone’s _ heart logical?”

There’s a sound by the door, and Graeme is standing there, face red. “Um. The kids were wondering if they could have some orange juice, too.” He turns around immediately after stammering out the request, and walks quickly away. 

“Graeme, wait— Dang it, Sam—” Alan rushes after him. 

He finds Graeme in Rick and Sam’s home office, spinning a little in the computer chair and staring off into space. He crouches down in front of Graeme, and places his hands over Graeme’s knees. “Come back for me, Graeme. It’s okay. I promise it’s okay.” 

Graeme closes his eyes, and counts a breath out. Catching on, Alan helps him count. They repeat it a half dozen times, before Graeme lets his eyes slip open. “Sorry,” he whispers. 

“It’s okay. It’s okay. We knew this was going to be hard, and here you are anyway, conquering it.” 

“Spiraling is not conquering.”

“Hey, spiraling is just protecting your brain for a little bit. It’s okay. You came out of it. You’re here now, out of the spiral.” He keeps rubbing his hands up Graeme’s thighs, trying to soothe him. 

“Your sister hates me.”

“She—”

“I don’t.” Sam steps into the office, looking embarrassed and sheepish. “I don’t hate you. I’m sorry. I just happen to love Alan a whole hell of a lot.” She looks down at her hands. “And because I do, I worry about him. I worry about things that matter to me.” 

“Me, too,” Graeme whispers, not meeting her eyes. A small smile slips over his face. “‘Course, I worry about a lot of things that don’t matter to me, too.” 

“Smartass,” Alan murmurs. He leans in, presses a kiss to Graeme’s knee poking out of the rip in his jeans. 

“The first round of Dutch baby is ready, and I came to tell you first, because otherwise my beloved husband and children would split the entire thing between them.” She gives them an apologetic smile and turns back to the kitchen. 

Graeme pushes to his feet, holding out his hands to help Alan up. Alan pauses for a second; it’s not a thing that’s often done for him, with his size. But Graeme steadies himself and pulls Alan up, and into a hug. Alan wraps his arms around Graeme and hugs back. 

“She doesn’t hate you,” Alan murmurs again. “She always takes a little while to come around to the guys I date.” 

“Maybe you just choose horrible guys.” 

Alan laughs, gratified that Graeme’s sounding a bit more like himself — or, himself minus the anxiety, anyway. Graeme is not his anxiety, but it is a huge part of understanding him. Alan brushes a kiss over Graeme’s forehead. “They weren’t you, so you’re probably right.” 

Graeme folds their hands together, and they walk out of the office. 

 

It’s fun to watch Graeme discover the amazingness that are Dutch babies. “I don’t even know how to explain how good this is,” he says, covering his mouth with his hand because he’s talking around a full bite. 

“They’re the easiest thing in the world to make. They have a metric ton of butter in them, so we don’t get them as often as my parents made them. But they’re a good once-in-a-while treat,” Sam says with a grin. 

It takes very little convincing on either of their parts to have Sam take Graeme as her sous chef to the kitchen to make the second round. Alan sits back, chatting idly with Rick, extremely satisfied by the low murmurs and occasional laughter he hears coming from the kitchen. When they emerge with a second pan, Graeme is all smiles and fluttering hands. The anxiety is still there, will always be there, but it’s not at the forefront. 

Alan wants to take him on his lap and kiss him, show him how proud he is, but settles on a more appropriate kiss on his forehead as they settle down to eat their second helping. 

 

Rick and the kids are back in the playroom, racing cars again as Sam walks them to the door. 

“Oh, um—” Graeme digs in his knitting bag, pulling out the green and purple hats. “These are for the kids. It was, um, Alan’s idea.”

Sam’s cheeks go pink as she takes the hats and examines them. “Well, now I feel like total shit for upsetting you.” She pulls Graeme into a gentle hug as Alan watches, grin growing on his face. “Shut up, baby brother.”

“What?”

“Graeme, these are  _ beautiful. _ Do you take commissions? My bestie’s birthday is coming up.” 

“Oh, um. I mean yeah, I can make you something. I don’t normally get money for them.”

Misunderstanding, Sam admonishes, “No, no, no! You _have_ to charge for this! This stuff is beautiful, and it’s really a lost art, you know? So many things nowadays are machine processed, no love in them at all!”

Something like gratification breaks over Graeme’s face. Pride wells up in Alan. “That’s how I think of it too. When someone makes you something, an actual human person, not a machine, you know they were thinking of you when they made it. Or they were thinking of something, or someone. They had love in mind as they made it. At least, I do, when I knit.” 

“I like that,” Alan murmurs. “Love in mind.”

“Okay, give me your number so we can hash details out. I  _ have _ to get Luci something you made.” 

Graeme is blushing with pleasure and pride as he rattles the number off.

 

They take the drive back to Seattle lazily, bellies full of good food, minds full of good memories. Beside him, Graeme sighs heavily. 

“I have to go back to the Burger Joint tomorrow.” 

Alan frowns. “Really?” 

“I’ve taken all the time I can.”

“But you’re not healed yet.”

Graeme just pins him with a stare, and Alan grips the wheel, nodding an apology, checking his privilege. “Late shift?”

“Yeah. So at least I get to sleep in. Especially since I have to spend the rest of the day packing.” 

“Wait, what?” Alan glances over at Graeme, his heart rate leaping a bit. 

“I— I mean, I’m well enough to work, I’m probably well enough to trod up five flights of stairs,” Graeme says uncertainly. 

“That’s...probably...true…” Desperately, Alan tries to come up with a reason why Graeme should stay. “Or you could stay…”  _ Epitome of cool, Alan Garry. _

“I— you— I mean.” Graeme looks out the passenger window. “What if you get tired of me?”

“If that happens, I’ll help you figure it out, okay? I won’t abandon you, even if we get tired of each other. I promise.”

Graeme purses his lips, but looks back his direction. “You could have just said you won’t get tired of me. I like that you didn’t.” His hand creeps over to find Alan’s again. 

“Would it make you feel better if we kept up the rent on your apartment?”

“We?”

“I figured I could help. I’m doing this for selfish reasons, after all.” Alan rushes forward. “Too soon? You can keep the guest bedroom as a space for yourself. Hell, you can keep your apartment if you want, I just— I’m just going to be really sad when I come home and you’re not here, is all.” He feels vulnerable, but he wants Graeme to have the choice. To choose him. 

Graeme swallows visibly. “I want to stay with you, too. I— my own space would be nice,” he admits softly. 

“Of course. You get to set boundaries, Graeme. Always remember that. Everyone deserves to set their boundaries.”

“A lesson from the kink scene?”

Alan laughs. “Yeah, I guess.”

 

Back in Seattle, before Graeme can open the car door, Alan reaches behind the seat and drops a bright yellow paper bag in his lap. 

“What’s this?” Graeme asks, though he has to recognize the logo of the yarn store.

Alan grins. “A present for making it through brunch.” 

“I spiraled, though.” 

“So? You still deserve your present. Open it,” he commands softly.

With shaky fingers, Graeme pulls out two balls of the orange alpaca yarn he’d fallen in love with the other day. “Alan.” 

The way he says his name borders on reverence, and Alan’s heart beats hard. 

“I wasn’t sure how much you’d need, so Angie told me to err on the side of two skeins. It’s entirely possible she was just trying to get a bigger sale out of me, but oh well.” 

“Alan, you’re going to make me cry.” 

“You look lovely when you cry?” Alan offers, rubbing Graeme’s shoulder.

Graeme laughs, but it is, in fact, a little teary.

Alan brushes one of the tears away from his cheek. “No, seriously, pink and grey go beautifully together.”

“You are the most ridiculous man.” 

“You like it?” Graeme sticks out his tongue, and it’s Alan’s turn to laugh. “You like it,” he says more confidently. Alan decides that he very much likes putting that look of happiness on Graeme’s face. “Come on, let’s go upstairs, and you can tell me what you’re going to make with it.”


	15. Back to Work - Graeme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graeme deals with heading back to work. 
> 
> Added tag: shaving

Waking up for his first shift back at the Burger Joint is bittersweet. He’s fairly confident he’s feeling good enough to go back to work, and he needs to feel like he’s doing something, but even in the span of a week, he’s gotten used to being treated like a human. He knows that’s not what’s in store for him at the Burger Joint. 

Then again, why should he be so picky? Maybe he’s gotten spoiled over the week. Maybe he needs to go back and be reminded of exactly who he is and what he's worth. 

“Mmph.” 

The cute noise Alan makes as he buries his face in Graeme’s neck and holds him closer is enough to distract Graeme from spiraling about it. He can save that for later, maybe. For now, he snuggles back into Alan’s arms. 

“Is it really time to get up?” Alan’s voice is all tired and cute. It may be Graeme’s favorite thing about falling asleep in Alan’s bed. 

“Yeah. Gotta earn that money, honey,” Graeme jokes, turning his head so he can kiss Alan’s cheek.

“Grumble, grumble, grumble,” Alan says, rumbling into a laugh with Graeme. 

Graeme rubs over the arm Alan’s resting on his stomach. “We could...shower together. Save water and time.” He knows he sounds hesitant.

Alan laughs, and nips at his ear. “One thing to work on, sweetie. If you want something, just ask. You don’t have to make an excuse. Unless we’re role playing, it’s better if you ask for what you want.” 

Graeme lets a deep breath in and out. “I want to take a shower with you, because I want to see you naked, but I don’t want to have sex.”

Alan’s eyes go wide and he grins. “That was  _ perfect, _ Graeme. Maybe even a little more than I was expecting, but I’m okay with that. And yes, I’d like all of that, too.” 

He feels himself go pink under Alan’s praise. Maybe he does have that praise kink after all. Alan releases him, and they roll out of bed together. 

In the bathroom, Graeme pulls off his pajamas, trying not to feel like he’s putting on a show for Alan. For his part, Alan also sheds his clothes efficiently, like they’re two dudes getting in the shower, and not seeing each other naked for the first time — minus, Graeme supposes, that time in the bath. 

As has become routine for the last week, Graeme goes up on his tiptoes to examine his hip bruise in the over-sink mirror. “Doesn’t look like a panda anymore. More like… an angry face.” 

Alan comes over, his brows furrow as he inspects Graeme’s hip. “Jesus, it still looks so bad, Graeme.”

“It really doesn’t hurt that much anymore.” Besides, Graeme would rather focus on Alan right now. He’s big, of course, tall and broad. The thighs Graeme had admired in jeans are even better unclothed, and Graeme’s fingers itch to feel them. Under his touch, around his head as he gives Alan a blow job, pressing into his own thighs as Alan fucks him — decidedly  _ not _ what he should be thinking about, and he doesn’t even know how much of that Alan would be into, anyway. 

Alan’s skin pinkens a little under Graeme’s appreciative gaze. “I, uh, try to not let it all go to fat,” he mumbles, sounding self-conscious, patting the softness of his belly. 

Graeme puts his hand over Alan’s. “You look good.” 

“I do yoga,” Alan says by way of explanation.

It’s less that Alan has bulging muscles anywhere, so much as he’s just...solid. “I see.” 

“Come here.” Alan obviously wants the attention away from himself, instead wrapping his arms tenderly around Graeme and guiding them into the shower. “Do you really have to go back to work? I’m worried you’re going to be in pain.” 

“Any longer and I’ll lose the job. Jeremy is nice, but they have to meet the bottom line. Besides, I’ve worked in pain before.” 

“That doesn’t make it okay now.”

“That’s life in the service industry, Alan.” 

Alan sighs. “If you could work anywhere you wanted, what would you want to do? You like cooking.”

“You mean like at a restaurant?” Graeme scoffs. 

“What? You could do it.”

“I have no training. I wouldn’t know the first thing of what to do in a professional kitchen, other than the whole ‘keep food at the right temp and don’t cross contaminate’ stuff I had to learn for my food handler’s license.”

“They do make schools for training.” 

“And I’d get the money where? Besides, no one in my family has ever been to college. I’d be terrible.”

Alan hums, neither an agreement or disagreement. “You know, Rick’s a counselor at the high school by them. I know he does career stuff.” 

Graeme closes his eyes, both to avoid getting soap in them and to avoid seeing the disappointment on Alan’s face. “I don’t think I can think about it right now, Alan.” 

Alan cups his face, bringing him in for a short kiss. “That’s okay. I’ll drop it.” He runs his thumbs over Alan’s chin. “Want a shave?”

Graeme’s eyes pop open. “Sh— sure.” 

There’s something extremely appealing about watching Alan concentrate on shaving him. He spreads the shaving cream with gentle fingers, then the cool scrape of the razor, and then fingers again, checking the smoothness. It’s surprisingly hot, letting Alan turn his face this way and that. “All done,” he pronounces in a low voice. 

Graeme’s face goes red as he realizes that he’s half hard, just from Alan  _ shaving _ him.

Grinning, Alan looks down. “Well, well. That’s good to know.” 

“Sorry, I— is this okay? Or would you rather not see me...like this?”

Alan presses him to the tile and gains his small nod before kissing him. “Don’t apologize. It’s natural and lovely and I’m not sex repulsed. Just because I don’t get hard from that kind of thing, doesn’t mean you can’t. Besides, I liked doing it, and I like that you like it this much.” 

Graeme’s heart patters in his chest, and he smiles up at Alan. “From the outside it seems complicated, but that’s all it is, isn’t it? Like feeding off each other.”

“Mhmm. Symbiotic.” Alan kisses his freshly shaved neck, his beard scratching there a little. It’s a delicious feeling, the differences between them. 

Outside the shower, Graeme’s second, ‘if you don’t wake up right now you’re going to be late’ alarm goes off, and Alan reluctantly pulls away, shutting off the water. Still, he takes his time toweling Graeme off with one of the fluffy towels that has honestly become Graeme’s favorite part of being here, besides Alan. 

“Have a good day,” he whispers in Alan’s ear on their elevator ride down to the lobby. Alan presses a kiss to his cheek. They part on the street, Alan heading for his town car, Graeme in the direction of the bus stop. Alan had offered Hendrick’s services, but Graeme would feel weird taking the fancy car down to his job. Alan gives him one last wave before Graeme resigns himself to work, tucking his earbuds in. 

 

Graeme is dragging his feet by the time the door lock disengages and he’s — he’s  _ home. _ Weird to think of it that way, but also, his mind rebels against calling it anything else. 

Alan is walking on the treadmill while clacking away at his keyboard, and Threepio runs up to greet Graeme, even if Artoo is still suspicious. His feet ache and his hip hurts and it hurts a little through his rib area to breathe very hard, so he just kind of collapses against the door and lets himself feel overwhelmed with everything. 

And then Alan is gathering him up in his arms, and he’s pushing back because — “No, don’t kiss me, I smell gross.” 

Alan pulls back, a look of concern on his face. “Did you take ibuprofen on your break today?”

Graeme shakes his head.

“You’re still cleared to take it, sweetie.” He bustles off to the kitchen to get the meds and water, while Graeme just continues to lean against the door. When he sees him again, Alan clicks his tongue. “Come sit down.” 

“If I sit down, I’m not getting back up, and I need dinner, and a shower, not necessarily in that order.” He downs the ibuprofen gratefully. 

“I’ll order something, Graeme. You — you have no idea how shitty you look right now.” 

“I don’t want take out,” he says, grumpy, because how many times has he said that in the last week? Alan’s continued reliance on take out is a little too much for him to handle right now. He rubs a hand over his face. “Sorry.” 

“It’s okay. I can leave you alone if you need a little decompression time, too.” He takes the water glass back from Graeme, then gives him those puppy dog eyes. “But I wouldn’t mind at least a kiss before you go.”

“Okay, but just, like, breathe through your mouth. I don’t want you associating me with fries.” 

“I promise.” He leans in, for a quick brush that somehow still makes feeling flutter all the way down to Graeme’s toes. “Welcome home.” 

Graeme warms, pleased that Alan's thinking along the same wavelength as he is. “Thanks,” he murmurs, pulling Alan back in for another kiss. “I’ll be right out. Don’t order anything. We’re cooking.”

“Yes, sir,” Alan replies with a wry smile. 

 

The shower helps, pounding his body and brain into something vaguely human-shaped again, and he slips into Alan’s soft pajamas — even when he moves his stuff in, he’s not sure if he’ll go back to his own pajamas. He likes the comfy warmth of Alan’s, and how they smell like him, and the way Alan looks at him, just a little intensely, when he’s wearing something of his. 

Alan’s nursing a beer with one hand and stroking Artoo on his lap with the other when Graeme pads back out to the living area. 

“Okay, come make yourself useful.” Graeme sticks his head in the fridge and hums. “Here, chop this,” he says, handing Alan half an onion. 

Alan catches him by the waist and pulls him in for a kiss. “You’re really adorable, you know that, baby?” He thumbs over Graeme’s cheek. “Especially when you blush all pretty when I call you baby.” 

“You keep this up and we’re never going to get dinner.” 

“Oh, I know you won’t let me distract you.” Alan’s voice is all challenge as he reaches down to squeeze Graeme’s ass. “What are we making?”

Graeme shivers. “Fajitas. Okay, can you get the peppers, too?” He starts cutting up strips of steak on his own cutting board. 

“I love fajitas, how you get to make a bunch of little burritos your own way. Perfect.”

Graeme laughs. “Well, good. And hopefully, you’ll see, it’s actually  _ not that hard _ to cook for yourself.” He pokes Alan in the chest to punctuate his statement. 

Alan pulls his cutting board up next to Graeme’s, his hip bumping ever so slightly into Graeme’s uninjured one. It makes Graeme smile. 

“You don't have a personal bubble, do you?”

“No,” Alan answers easily, though he has the grace to blush. “I've always been a touchy-feely person. I'm sorry, I'll stop.”

“No, no.” Graeme washes his hands of steak juice and carries the cutting board over to the stove, then lays his hand on Alan’s shoulder. “Please don't stop. I like that you want to touch me, even when I’m not freaking out.”

“You sure?”

It’s an intimate moment, Graeme thinks, here in the kitchen, the cats winding around their feet, Alan’s hand on his body. There’s something visceral about preparing a meal for Alan, with him there, that makes Graeme feel like opening up in a way he’d never done with Terrence or Fernando. “I like it,” he says simply.

Alan looks vulnerable. “I worry about triggering your anxiety. If touch— I mean. I don’t want to make things worse for you than they are already.”

“Touch doesn’t make me anxious. I mean, I wouldn’t want a stranger to touch me inappropriately, or something, but—” He cuts himself off, turns back to stir the meat and seasonings together. 

“But I’m not a stranger.” 

“No, you’re definitely not that anymore.” Graeme smiles a little as he looks up from stirring the fajita mixture and at the happy wonder on Alan’s face.  _ I made him feel that way. _ His heart speeds up; it feels like anxiety, even though he  _ feels _ like it should feel good, right? It should feel good to make Alan feel good. It shouldn’t make him feel the same way that freaking out about money does, right? Is this what…  _ connections _ with other human beings are going to feel like for the rest of his life, or will it get better the longer he’s on the meds? What if he’s broken forever? What if he never has a chance to — to have a relationship beyond friendship?

A hand over his on the frying pan handle. It moves the pan under his hand, off the burner. When Graeme looks down at it, confused, the steak is burnt. “Shit. Fuck. I ruined it.” 

“Looks good to me.” Alan’s voice is gentle, his arms wrapping around Graeme’s waist and giving him a small hug.

Graeme can’t help but feel like the world’s biggest idiot. **“** You probably eat at the Burger Joint.” 

Alan reaches up to play with the shaved hair at the nape of Graeme’s neck. It makes Graeme shiver, just a little.  “Smartass,” he whispers, and it only serves to center Graeme further. 

“I guess it’s not ruined,” Graeme allows, after stirring it in the pan. “The meat might just be a little extra chewy. Um. Let’s get the veggies in here.” 

Alan distracts him the rest of the time it takes to prep the meal. By the time they’re getting the warmed tortillas out of the oven, Alan has moved on to sports. 

“So, sportsball?” Alan asks as they set up plates on the island counter. “What do you like?”

“Hockey.”

“Really?”

“Why do you sound so surprised?” 

Alan shrugs. “I don’t know. It seems violent?”

“It’s really not. They don’t fight nearly as often as the fans would want them to.”

“Who do you like?”

“The Thunderbirds.”

Alan’s face is hilariously blank.

“The Seattle hockey team. Well, not NHL, the WHL. They’re younger. I normally save up to see a game every year on my birthday.” 

“Which is, if I remember what you told Rick correctly, next month, right?”

“Yeah, March 21st.”

“Hmmmmmm,” Alan says, very obviously, stroking his beard and making Graeme laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

They eat elbow to elbow at the island counter on bar stools, Alan’s foot sharing a rung on his. “Thith ith good,” Alan says around a full mouth, which makes Graeme elbow him. 

It’s a messy meal, fajita juice running down their hands and arms, and somehow that makes it a funny meal. They share a case of the giggles between them as they chase drips with their tongues and groan when they miss. 

All in all, it’s not so bad, the hours at the Burger Joint, when this is what he has to come home to, Graeme decides.


	16. Munch - Graeme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alan takes Graeme to a munch, and Graeme makes a new friend.

As the week progresses, it gets easier; Graeme is less tired at the end of his shifts, like coming home and spending the evening with Alan is more renewing than anything else he’s ever tried.

As a reward, on Thursday, for making it through his first four days back (he does have to work tomorrow, although he gets Saturday off before starting again on Sunday), Alan finds a munch, a get together for people in the kink scene, for them to attend. There’s an event tomorrow night, too, and Alan has set up a scene with a sub so Graeme can watch. He wants Graeme to meet the sub tonight.

Graeme reaches for Alan’s hand, then thinks better of it and pulls it back, shoving it in his hoodie pocket instead. He’s not sure Alan wants to advertise their — whatever type of relationship this is — here. Over the last week, they’ve slept together every night, but haven’t progressed beyond a little making out before bed.

Alan must be thinking along the same lines, because he pauses before they head into the restaurant. “I want you to meet Jacob, but I don’t want you to feel like you have to stick with me the entire night. Munches are for feeling out who you might like to play with, who gives you good vibes and who doesn’t. Or, it’s for finding friends, without any future promise of play. You owe no one anything, showing up at one of these things. Okay?”

Graeme swallows, but nods.

Alan searches his face. “Rule one: try for vocal answers, if you can.”

“Yeah, I’m okay.” He goes for a reassuring smile and touches Alan’s hand. “What are we going in there as, though?”

Alan surprises Graeme with his answer. “I’m trying to fight this overwhelming feeling of possession right now, Graeme, and I’m not doing a great job of it. I want you to walk in there on my arm, so everyone knows whose sub you are, who’s going to be playing with you.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“We’re— I mean, we haven’t defined— I don’t want to monopolize your time, okay?”

“Alan, do you think I’m going to go in there and find someone else I want to play with? Why the hell would I do that?”

“I mean, I’m ace, I know that’s not ideal, I might not be what you want. I don't— I'm not every good at topping, probably, and— and I don't know."

Graeme steps into Alan’s space, cupping his face and pulling him closer. "Where's this coming from?"

Alan's eyes slide away, and he looks more vulnerable than Graeme has ever seen him. "My ex had some, uh...pretty deeply held beliefs about what aces should do, in the bedroom."

"Fuck him." Graeme presses his lips against Alan's. "I know that's easy to say and not easy to practice, but... He doesn't matter, not here, between us. I'm here because I'm interested in play _with you,_ not just any rando. I want to know more about how this works for _you._ "

“Yeah?”

“Do you really want to define the relationship right now?”

Alan licks his lips. “Maybe. I don’t know why— why I’m feeling so possessive and vulnerable, and I’m sorry, and I shouldn’t be acting like a caveman—”

“I’m pretty sure it’s normal for someone to feel possessive of their boyfriend.” His heart speeds up as he says it, and it sounds _so damn right_ coming out of his lips.

“Boyfriend?”

“Why not?”

Alan pulls him up close for a deep, possessive kiss. “Okay. Boyfriend.”

When they separate, Graeme’s hand is captured in Alan’s.

 

“Newbie?”

Graeme looks up from his soda as a pretty young woman sits down next to him. He’s already met Jacob, the sub who would be doing a scene with Alan tomorrow night. Alan had convinced him to try and meet some people on his own, and Graeme is rapidly remembering exactly why he doesn’t like going out to clubs. “Yeah, how could you tell?”

She takes a sip of her beer and smiles. “You look a little scared, and lost. I remember that, my first time. Barbie,” she says, holding her hand out for him.

He shakes it. “Really?”

“Nah,” she responds with a laugh. “Just a pseudonym.”

“Wait, am I supposed to use a fake name?” Graeme feels a bloom of panic inside him.

“No, no. I mean, some people do, as an extra layer of protection, or as part of their play.” She gives him a smile and a dainty little shrug. “Makes me feel sexy, so, for this, I’m Barbie.”

“I’m Graeme.” He takes a drink of his soda.

“How many times in your life have you gotten, ‘like the cracker’?”

He feels his cheeks heat even as he smiles. “Way too many. And it’s not spelled that way. I mean. It’s spelled the Scottish way? With a lot of extra As and Es. It’s a family name. My like, last five grandpas, or something.”

“You look so familiar, but I can’t place my finger on it. You sure you’ve never been to one of these? Or an event?”

Graeme shakes his head. “No, I’m seriously new. I don’t know, maybe I have one of those faces?”

Barbie shrugs. “What brought you to a munch?”

“My, um, boyfriend, is into it? And I wanted to see what it’s about?” Graeme blushes.

“There’s a lot of question marking in that answer, but that’s okay, questioning is good.” She grins. “Must be a new boyfriend. Who is he, and why did he abandon you here, all alone?”

“Oh, he didn’t abandon me, he just wanted me to get a feel for a munch, without him. Okay, that sounds like abandoning. But really, it’s not, he’s great. **”** Graeme laughs nervously. Alan didn’t tell him if he goes by a pseudonym. What if he does, and Graeme of course doesn’t know it, so he says the wrong name to this Barbie, and then all of a sudden Alan’s deep secret is sold to the press, and he’s forced out, and he loses his government contracts, and his company, and it’s all Graeme’s fault? What if he decides to cut Graeme out of his life because of that?

“Graeme? Are you okay? You look sick.” Barbie snaps to get the waiter’s attention. “Yeah, can we have some water here, please?”

His heart is still pounding sickly in his chest. Shit, he spiraled fast this time. And Barbie is probably expecting an answer, and he’s making a scene, and soon Alan is going to come over when he didn’t want to, when he wanted to give Graeme space to develop on his own.

The soda cup is pried out of his hand, and water pressed into it instead. Automatically, he takes a sip, and another, rasping, “Sorry.”

“Can I rub your back? You’re still pale as a sheet.”

He nods, and she smooths her hand over the button down he’d borrowed from Alan for the night. It’s huge on him, but he likes that, likes loose clothes, they make him feel safe and surrounded and unexposed. “Sorry,” he repeats, voice sounding better this time. His heart still feels like it’s pounding.

“Panic attack?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t worry about apologizing. I had one of those once, it sucked majorly.”

 _Once? That must be nice._ “Can you...can you talk to me? Tell me about...whatever you want to talk about? How you got into this stuff, or what you like, or whatever? Just— I need a distraction.”

He must look desperate, because she does, talking in a low, calm voice about how she first got interested because of _50 Shades of Grey_ and then realized, quite quickly, how badly it portrayed the scene. She makes him laugh when she talks about her first time hitting someone, how she’d barely tapped them, the impact equivalent of ‘is it in yet?’ She switches roles, she explains. Depends on what she’s looking for that particular evening, what — or who — interests her the most. She’s a fount of knowledge, Barbie, and she does it all while she encourages him to drink water and rubs her hand slowly over his back.

He finds himself spilling out the story of his last two weeks to her — leaving Alan’s name out, because he’s still not sure if he’s supposed to say it or not. She never once looks at him like he’s insane, just nods along like she’s heard the story a million times before. Maybe she has.

“I personally don’t find the Sugar Daddy thing hot, but I’m not going to yuck someone’s yum, you know?”

“I...might...find it hot?” He _feels_ hot, and his heart is pounding again, but not from anxiety. He feels like he might be able, eventually, to distinguish between excitement and anxiety. Maybe. “I like being taken care of,” he admits for the first time. “I like the way he takes care of me." His admission is soft, but no less life-changing.

“Of course you do, honey. Everyone deserves to be taken care of.”

“Earlier he told me...that he was feeling possessive, and he wanted to monopolize my time, and I found that really hot?”

Barbie laughs. “It’s okay to find that hot. As long as you’re both consenting, and as long as, you know, it doesn’t become abusive. Him wanting to show everyone else you're his? Hot, I mean, in my opinion, of course. Him wanting to cut off your contact with anyone else from him? Run away.”

“I don’t think he wants to do that.” Graeme frowns. The idea seems antithetical to what he knows of Alan. “But I’ll watch out for it, thank you.”

“You want to exchange numbers? You can send me questions you don’t want to ask him, that kind of thing. Although communication with your partner — if that’s what you want to be — is essential.”

“Yeah, he made it sound like there’s a lot of talking.”

“There’s a lot of talking, sure, up front. But then there’s a lot of lovely, lovely pleasure and trust.” She finishes off her beer, then perks up. “Hey, you know who would be perfect to chat with about this kind of stuff? He's great with newbies. Have you met Alan?”

She nods behind him, and he turns to look around. In the corner, Alan is chatting with a small group, his hands gesticulating wildly in front of him. Barbie sighs. “I bet someone got him arguing about the MCU versus the DCEU again.” She sharpens her gaze at the look on Graeme’s face. “Oh shit, you _do_ know him! _Alan?_ Alan is your sugar daddy?”

She goggles at him for a second, then holds out her fist for a bump. “Nice.”

He looks down at it, then bumps it timidly. “I don’t know if he wants anyone to know…”

“No problemo. My fake middle name is Discreet.” Barbie’s eyes widen. “Oh, shit! Now I know where I know you from.” She pulls out her phone and scrolls through it, then holds it up for Graeme to see.

It’s a picture of him and Alan, in that Indian restaurant last week. Brow furrowing, he thumbs down the page to read all about Seattle’s Most Eligible Bachelor going on a date with a ‘cutie’ and sorry to all the ‘poor women’ who had ‘gotten their hopes up.’

“What the fuck?”

“They’re ridiculous, aren’t they? Just last week they had Alan and me paired together, and now all of a sudden, he’s definitely gay. I mean, he could be bi.”

“Why is anyone even speculating about that anyway?” Graeme sputters, feeling his nausea come back. What if Alan doesn't want to be seen in public with him? In a sense, he'd been forcibly outed by some random stranger with a camera app. Has he seen the picture? Graeme struggles against the panic for a moment, trying to focus on Barbie's face.

Barbie sighs. “Alan’s name is hot right now, unfortunately. It bugs the fuck out of him.” She takes her phone back. “But okay, so. Alan is mystery possessive boyfriend. I never, in a million years, would have guessed that. He’s like, the most laid-back Dom I’ve met, and I’ve played with him, so I’d know. You must be something special, G, and I mean that in the best way possible.”

“I think we’re both...just trying to figure this thing out slowly," he manages to mumble, pulse still beating wildly.

“That’s really good, though.” She gives him a smile. “I hope you crazy kids work it out, I seriously do. I know Alan knows how to talk, how to negotiate. He’ll listen to your concerns and answer your questions. You just have to try it, you know? Honestly, it’s about damn time. I could tell this was wearing on him.”

“Wearing on him?”

“He’s a monogamous guy, at heart. You can just tell, with some of these guys. He’s lonely. But hopefully not anymore, right?”

“Right.” Assuming Alan doesn't dump him. He hands her his phone to exchange numbers. “Thanks, Barbie.”

She leans in and kisses his cheek. “You’re welcome, honey. The way he’s been looking at you all night? I bet it works out.”

 

Later that night, as they’re snuggling into sleep together, he can't take the pressure anymore. The best way to get through the anxiety is to attack it at its source. If Alan hasn't seen the photos, it's his duty to tell him. “Hey, Alan?”

“Yeah?” Alan already sounds half asleep.

“Did you know that someone took pictures of us out to lunch the other day?”

There’s a silence behind him, so Graeme turns in Alan’s arms, searching his face, heart beating rapidly.

“I...found out about it on Sunday, yes.”

Graeme flattens his palm on Alan’s chest, feeling surreptitiously for his breaths to try and slow his own. “Do they bother you?”

Alan frowns. “Kind of. I like privacy. I don’t want you to feel like you’re being watched all the time or something, either.”

"You're not worried about being out?"

"It's not like my ex-boyfriends signed NDAs or anything. It was a horribly-kept open secret, anyway. Now it's out there, and I can just do my thing, with my boyfriend." He gives Graeme a small smile, but Graeme's teeth are bit into his lip still. "Do they bother you?"

With his first worry assuaged, a bigger one rises to the surface. “Mostly I’m just glad I didn’t look like an idiot.”

“You don’t look like an idiot ever, sweetie.” Alan presses a kiss to his forehead.

“I just don’t want anyone thinking ‘why is he with _him?’”_

“You can’t control what other people think, but you should know that I’ll never think that, okay? Just to remember, if you spiral about it. If anything, I’ll be wondering what you see in me. You should be out dancing in clubs, not hanging out with an old fart that mostly wants to sit on the couch and watch vintage sci fi shows.”

“The couch is much more my speed, anyway.” He leans in to press their lips together. “Thank you.”

Alan snuggles him closer, letting the rain sounds playing on his phone take over silence in the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are officially past the half way point, both words and chapters wise, with this update. Up next, the scene Alan does with Jacob, and, dare I say it, a little something more between our boys????


	17. Watching Alan Play - Graeme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alan and Graeme attend a kink event, where Graeme watches Alan play.

The kink event is held at a yoga studio by day, kink meetup by night, up in the Green Lake area. “We’ll take an Uber home, thanks, Hendrick,” Alan says as he opens the town car door.

“Hey, Alan, make sure our boy doesn’t get hit this time, eh?”

Graeme blushes as Alan helps him out of the car. “Yeah, maybe we should take a Lyft instead.”

“Smartass.”

This time, as they approach the studio, Alan’s hand is firmly in his. It feels good, Graeme maybe feeling that same possessiveness that Alan does.

“Do you want to explore, see what everyone else is doing?”

“That would be good, probably.” Graeme takes a deep breath in and out. He’s not doing anything tonight, so why is _he_ nervous?

“Do you want me to be with you, or do you want to do it yourself?”

Graeme chews his lip. _Talk to him,_ Barbie had said. “I feel more comfortable when I’m around you.”

Alan’s eyes flare, just a little — Graeme thinks maybe with pleasure — before he gives a short nod. He leans down, cupping behind Graeme’s head to kiss him, and then Graeme _knows_ it was pleasure in Alan's eyes. It makes Graeme’s heart pound all the faster. Alan nibbles on his lip a little before pulling back, and taking his hand again, to lead them inside.

The space is...not what he expected. It’s just— just a standard yoga studio, with some screens dividing off certain sections, and a couple of small changing rooms, and a sign pointing discreetly down the hallway to another yoga room marked ‘aftercare room.’ In the kink room, there are various pieces of furniture around, and while he isn’t entirely sure exactly what everything is for, he gets the idea. The walls are old-style brick, and Graeme blushes when he sees Barbie suspended from ropes connected to hooks in the brick. Her eyes are closed, her mouth slightly open, and her Domme is petting gently over her skin. It’s intense, and Graeme moves a little closer to Alan.

“She’s okay,” Alan whispers.

Graeme colors. He doesn't want Alan to think he's a baby or something. “Yeah, of course, just—”

“She’ll use her colors if she needs to, and that’s what the dungeon monitors are for.” Alan points out a woman walking around the space, wearing a little button with ‘DM’ imprinted on it. “And speaking of colors, it would be okay to use them here, if you want.” He gives Graeme a little smile, tracing over his cheek. “How are you feeling, Graeme?”

Graeme closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and goes for the honesty he knows Alan expects of him. “Green. Maybe a little overwhelmed, but— green.”

“Okay. If that changes, and I’m in my scene, I want you to find a monitor, okay? They’ll help you figure out what needs to happen next, so you can be okay.”

“I don’t want to do something stupid, you know?”

Alan smiles at him. “Don’t touch, and you should be fine. People are here because they want to be gawked at, so don’t feel awkward about that. If you see something that bothers you, find one of the monitors walking around. It might be that you just don’t understand what you’re watching, and they can help explain. It might be that you’re watching someone act inappropriately, and they can help, okay?”

“Okay.” He swallows and nods. His stomach is a ball of anxiety and his brain seems like it's racing, so: situation normal, all fucked up for Graeme, then. “I’m okay. Green.”

Alan sweeps him up for another kiss. “I’m going to go get changed, have a talk with Jacob about what we’re doing tonight. I hope you like it.”

“I’m sure I will, you’re doing it.” Graeme grins, letting his eyes move over Alan’s body.

Alan’s cheeks go pink, and he reaches and squeezes his hand once. “Such a smartass.” He slings his bag over his shoulder and heads for the changing room.

While he's gone, Graeme tries not to look like an idiot, casually leaning against the wall and watching a scene - not Barbie's, that still feels weird to him. Mostly he's not even paying attention to the play in front of him — a sub is on his knees, eating out his Domme like his life depends on it. Instead, he tries to breathe through the mindfulness exercises.

The one thing he absolutely appreciates, looking around the room, is the variety of bodies, confident in semi or full nudity. These people aren't - they aren't like, models or something. They're teachers, and insurance salespeople, and college students, and grandparents. All doing their thing. And that's what finally brings Graeme down enough to really enjoy himself when Alan comes back out and shows him where he and Jacob will be doing their scene.

 

He’s not the only one watching Alan’s scene; there’s a woman here sitting on a man’s lap. He’s stroking through her hair, and he has her on a leash, a studded collar around her neck. She looks content, giving Graeme a little smile before leaning up to kiss the guy she’s with. Graeme turns away from them — he knows Alan said people come here to be seen, but he still feels awkward, and technically, they’re not the ones on display, Alan and his sub are.

Alan looks unbearably hot. Graeme thinks he might have done something to his eyes, because they’re smokier, bigger, darker, behind his glasses. He’s not wearing a shirt, but he is wearing skin-tight black jeans that show off those wonderful thighs that Graeme admires.

“How are you tonight, Jacob?” Alan pushes a hand through Jacob’s hair, and pulls it a little. The attention he’s giving the other man is _also_ unbearably hot, and Graeme squirms where he’s sitting on the floor. If he’s trying to judge whether or not this is for him, he thinks his rapidly-hardening dick already has the answer.

“Great. Ready.” Jacob looks older than Alan, by maybe a decade, and he’s wearing a suit. Graeme remembers them discussing Jacob wanting to work out something that had happened at work, that Alan is basically role playing his boss.

“Any changes to the plan? Hand and spoon?”

“No changes.” Alan tugs his hair again. “No changes, _sir.”_

Graeme _knew_ Jacob was going to call Alan ‘sir’, and yet it fits so perfectly, Graeme squirms again. He moves his lips in the form of the words, testing them out, liking them.

“Perfect. And what are your words?” It seems like Alan whispers it, but it can’t be, not with the level of noise in the room.

“Green, yellow, red, sir.”

“Very good.” He leans forward, kissing Jacob, his tongue sweeping inside. Jacob melts into it, into Alan, in surrender. They’d cleared this with Graeme, too. He’s not exactly sure why he’s not bothered by Jacob kissing Alan. Maybe because he knows exactly who Alan is coming home with at the end of the night. “Why are you being punished tonight?”

“I didn’t finish my project by deadline.”

Alan hums, unbuttoning Jacob’s shirt and pulling it off. “Unfortunate. Very well, Jacob, come here.” He sighs, like he’s disappointed in Jacob, and Graeme is unexpectedly affected. He doesn’t want to disappoint Alan, _ever._

Alan sits down on the chair, and pulls Jacob over his knees. Jacob’s pants are still on, and Alan slowly smooths one of his hands over Jacob’s ass, warming it. The slap is sudden, though it seems light. It makes both Graeme and Jacob gasp, though, and Alan glances up to watch Graeme’s face as his brings his hand down again.

“Count for me, baby boy,” he murmurs.

 _Oh. Oh, no, I like that._ _I want to be Alan’s baby boy._

Graeme begins to count in his head along with Jacob, even though Alan is no longer looking at him. All of his attention is focused on the man coming apart on his lap. He peppers his hand over Jacob’s ass, never striking the same place twice in a row, working the intensity up slowly. When Jacob reaches twenty, he stops, and Jacob sags in his lap. Though he didn't expect it, Graeme finds himself sagging a little in his seat, too, his skin buzzing with feeling and his mind reeling as his body relaxes again.

“Color?” Alan whispers in Jacob’s ear, and Jacob looks — wrecked, is the most appropriate word Graeme can think of. There’s this look in Jacob’s eyes, his pupils blown out, like he’s not entirely here with all of them, in this room.

“Green,” he whispers back. _Green, so very green,_ Graeme echoes in his head.

Alan eases Jacob’s pants off slowly to show his bare ass. It’s pink from the slaps, pretty, almost. His cock is hard, bobbing when Alan moves the pants away, then pressing against Alan’s leg as he goes back over his lap again. “Good boy, my Jakey, good. Count for me again.”

He picks up a spoon from his bag; it’s a wooden kitchen spoon, well-oiled and beautifully hand carved with a wide, flat head. Graeme squirms on the floor again, imagining himself in Jacob’s place. At some point, the leashed woman and her man left. Now it’s just Alan, Jacob, and Graeme, and Graeme realizes he’s hard as a rock, like Jacob is.

Again, he counts with Jacob silently, following Alan’s arm as it brings the spoon down on Jacob’s ass and upper thighs. With every hit, Jacob’s body shudders, and he groans out the count. With every hit, Graeme echoes Jacob's count and imagines what the impact would feel like on his own body. His palms are sweaty, hands clenched in his lap over his achingly hard cock. The rest of the room has faded to the background, just buzzing that Graeme doesn't have to focus on. 

At one point, Jacob lets out a particularly loud groan, grinding his cock against Alan’s thigh, and Alan stops. Jacob whimpers sadly, already apologetic, and Graeme's nodding along, thinking  _He didn't mean to, it just feels so good_ — “Did I say you could do that, baby boy? This is a punishment. You’re not supposed to be getting off.”

Alan’s voice is so stern and commanding. Graeme licks his lips as his pulse races.  He very, very much wants to be the person over Alan’s lap right now. He wants to show Alan how he can be a good boy. He wants —

“Ten more for that, Jakey. Let’s go.”

Graeme’s heart is beating fast, adrenaline spiking through his veins as he watches Jacob take fifteen more hits before he’s sobbing, asking, begging for forgiveness. It's so hard to tell if he's anxious or excited or aroused or— but whatever it is, Graeme wants more. He wants Alan's attention, even though he'd never dream of interrupting the scene.

“Such a good boy,” Alan croons in Jacob’s ear. “I know you didn’t mean it. And you took your punishment so well.”

And oh, that's nice too. Alan's words are like a balm, soothing Graeme and Jacob at the same time. Jacob's calm and quiet now in Alan's lap, breathing heavily, looking up at Alan with what Graeme can only imagine is an adoring look.

“Pl—please let me come, sir.”

“I think you do deserve a reward, after all. Come here.”

Jacob pushes up, and Alan cradles him in his arms, kissing away some of the tears from Jacob’s cheeks and murmuring more kind words about how Jacob just made a mistake, and mistakes are human, and now he can forgive himself.

Alan reaches down for Jacob’s cock as they kiss. “Come for me, baby boy,” he whispers against Jacob’s lips. Jacob pants, burying his face in Alan’s neck and arching up into his hand. It’s all over in a dirty second, leaving Graeme hard and wet in his boxers.

He thinks it’s over, but it’s not. Alan is still cradling Jacob, rocking him in his arms and bringing a blanket up around his shoulders. “Good boy, very good,” he’s murmuring in Jacob’s ear.

Jacob’s eyes are closed, and he’s shuddering at the praise, still burying his face in Alan’s neck. Alan lifts him up and begins to carry him out of the room, and Graeme scrambles to follow because — _not_ because he’s like one of Alan’s cats, always following him from room to room. Because he’s curious.

In the aftercare room, Alan places Jacob down into what looks like a pile of huge, comfy floor pillows, and grabs a water bottle and some oranges from the side. He lays with Jacob, cuddling him, whispering praise, helping Jacob come down.  

And oh. _Oh._ _This_ is aftercare. It’s so … so intimate. So nice. Once again, Graeme wishes he were in Jacob’s position right now, because he’s had Alan’s arms wrapped around him and it’s— it’s everything.

He leaves the aftercare room, feeling a little lost, and a lot turned on. He understands Alan needs to care for Jacob now, after their intense session, but all he wants to do is join them on the pillows, and he can’t have that right now.


	18. Coming Down - Alan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After his scene, Alan discovers Graeme might need a little aftercare himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From this point on is where I'd like to remind you that this fic has been tagged "Daddy Kink" since the beginning, so if that's not your bag, that's what's coming up.

It takes a while for Alan to bring Jacob down properly; since the scene was about an actual punishment, Jacob went deeper than he normally does. When he’s satisfied that Jacob can make it home safely, he walks out with him and tucks him into an Uber with instructions to text him when he's safely home. After that, he gets changed back into street clothes and washes his face, so it’s a long while before he goes to look for Graeme.

He finds him observing another impact play scene. It takes about two seconds to realize something is wrong; Graeme’s eyes are unfocused on the scene before him, his breathing shallow. _Fuck._

Without disturbing the scene, Alan pulls Graeme away from the wall and out toward the hallway. Here, it’s a little quieter, and Alan pulls out his phone and earbuds, sliding them into Graeme’s ears and setting up the white noise app to play. He pulls a nearly empty water bottle from his bag and presses it to Graeme’s lips. “Drink for me, Graeme. You’re okay. It’s okay. I’m sorry I wasn’t here to snap you out.”

Graeme takes a drink, breathes in deeply, counts his breath out. He shakes his head. “Not your fault, not really a spiral, I don’t think,” he manages, before drinking more water. “Just—” He looks around, embarrassed, pulling the earphones out. “I don’t really want to talk about it here. But I do want to talk about it.”

Alan cups his face, kissing his sweaty forehead. “Okay. Okay, we can do that. Why don’t you put the earbuds back in, and I’ll get us an Uber, okay?

Graeme nods, and Alan starts typing rapidly on his phone. The next few minutes are hazy as they wait for the Uber to arrive, Graeme tucked into his body, his face buried in Alan’s chest. When the car arrives, Alan helps him carefully inside, and holds his hand after they’ve got seatbelts on.

“I’m so sorry,” Alan says again, feeling helpless. “I should have been there for you.” He knows this doesn’t make sense; he couldn’t just abandon Jacob to sub drop, but Graeme— obviously something is wrong, and Alan wasn’t there to stop it—

“It’s not your fault, it’s just my stupid brain.”

“Yeah, but I convinced you to go. I pushed you—”

“What? You didn’t push me at all. I _wanted_ to go, Alan. And it’s not your fault I freaked out. I—” He shuts up, then glances at the Uber driver, who seems to be intensely minding his own business. “In private?” he asks again, a begging look in his eyes.

Alan nods. “Yeah, okay.” He looks out the window, then asks the driver to pull over. “You feeling up to a walk? It’s only a few blocks from home.” Graeme nods quickly.

Outside the car, Alan pulls Graeme into an embrace, and immediately feels a little better, the guilt easing as he feels Graeme relax into him. He’s not sure how long he holds him like that before they break apart, just a little, and start walking towards the apartment.

“I wanted to be Jacob,” Graeme whispers, like some terrible confession.

“That’s— I mean, that’s what we were there to do, right? Have you observe?”

“I don’t mean— I guess ‘want’ is the wrong word. I _needed_ to be Jacob. I needed to be good, for you. I needed to be your— your b—b—baby boy.”  

Everything clicks, and then he's wrapping Graeme in his arms again, stroking through his hair. “Shit, baby, I’m sorry.”

“I don’t understand why…”

 _Of course you don't._ “You’re under, a little, I think. Subspace, just a little. And it’s okay, totally, totally okay. I’m going to take care of you. I should have thought about that, I just— I guess you're just really empathetic, or a bit of voyeur, either way it's totally okay.”

“I didn’t really get it, and I started having a panic attack…”

“Oh, honey.” Alan hugs him tighter, brushing a kiss over his forehead. “Your body is trying to cope with the alchemy in your veins right now, baby. That’s all this is. Everything is okay.”

“You made me so hard. Still hard.”

“Look, baby, we’re almost home, and I’m going to take care of you, and everything is going to feel good again.”

“I’m such a dork.”

Alan laughs, just a little, and some of the tension eases as Graeme’s lips tip up. “You’re _my_ dork, and I’ve got you.”

“Is it … wrong that I want to be your baby boy?”

“Did you like it when I called Jacob that?”

“I imagined you calling me that, and me calling you—”

“Calling me what?”

 _“Daddy,”_ Graeme breathes out. “That’s what you are, aren’t you? My Sugar Daddy.”

Alan’s gut turns to rock. How could he— he’d only ever told Clarissa, just that once, he’d confessed that he had a Daddy kink and he’d wanted to know _why,_ because he doesn’t have daddy issues. He loves his dad, very platonically.

“Can I call you that?”

 _Fuck._ “Yes.”

They have, very thankfully, reached the apartment building, and they’re buzzed in by the night guard. On the long elevator ride up, Alan holds Graeme against him, gently rocking him. He can feel that Graeme is still hard in his jeans.

“Listen, baby...boy. I want to play with you, but we’re not going to do that tonight, okay? Think of it a little like you’re drunk right now, on hormones. You are _super_ suggestive, and you can’t consent properly.”

Graeme grumbles against the skin of his neck, and Alan has to laugh a little at that.

“I’m going to help you come down, and make sure you don’t drop, but we’re not playing, okay? I just want that clear. Not because I don’t want to. You’re such a good boy, and you deserve a scene, and you’re going to get a great one, a proper introduction, and it’ll be great, I promise? Just not like this.”

“You want me, though?”

“Oh, baby. Yes,” he laughs out. “Yes. D— Daddy wants to play with you very badly.”

Graeme shivers in his arms. _Oh, oh fuck._ He might be the sweetest sub Alan’s ever held.

“I don’t want to come down. I’ve never felt like this before.”

 _Okay, so maybe he’s a bit of a brat, too._ Alan grins. “What goes up must, sweetie. But I’ll help so you won’t crash, hopefully.”

The elevator dings and the doors slide open. Alan holds up a minute sign as they pass by one of his neighbors. He hurries them into his apartment, but he can see the silent time has had a bad effect on Graeme’s brain. His eyes are already filled with anxiety again. Hopefully playing with Graeme won’t always be this tricky — but then again, hopefully Graeme will never have the time to let his anxiety start to spiral before they slip into aftercare. The timing tonight has been all off and unfortunate, but Alan thinks he can avoid it in the future.

Once they’re inside, Graeme’s fingers clutch at his clothing. “I don’t want this to be just a deal,” he bursts out when they’re in the apartment. “I don’t want— every time, before— I don’t want just a deal.”

Alan curses under his breath, cupping Graeme’s cheeks and leaning in to kiss his forehead. “I don’t want it to be part of our contract, either. Or — well, there’s stuff we have to negotiate. But separately from the money stuff. You don’t owe me this, you know that, right?”

“Do you care that I...did that before? Made deals for sex?” Graeme whispers.

Alan rubs over his cheek with his thumb. “No, Graeme, baby, it’s okay. I don’t care about what you did to survive to this point. I just want to make sure that you know you don’t—”

“Owe you. I know. And you don’t...expect this from me?”

Alan gathers him up into a hug, resting his forehead against Graeme’s. “Sweetie, since you came into my life, you’ve been one damn surprise after another. I never know what to expect.” He takes a deep breath. “I, Alan Garry, of sound mind and body—” the phrasing makes Graeme laugh, just a little, “hereby state that any sex, or kink, or scenes, any of it — all of it is done because I want to, with you, and not because I’m expecting it as payment for anything I’ve given you under our other contract.”

He holds up a hand, and Graeme places his over it, vowing, “I, Graeme Webster, hereby state that I am going into this willingly, that I want this, and you, and that I know it’s not payment.” He blows out a breath. “How’s that?”

“We’re going to have to work on your avoidance of the word sex, and we’re going to have to do this all again tomorrow, when we’re in a better frame of mind, but not too bad, baby.” Alan dips in, brushing a small kiss over Graeme’s lips. He takes Graeme’s hand. “Let’s get you taken care of.”

Graeme smiles up at him as Alan leads him back to the master bedroom — _their_ bedroom. “I’m going to touch you, to get you undressed and in bed, okay? I’m not going to touch you sexually.”

“Aww.”

The whine makes Alan laugh a little. “Soon, baby boy.”

He works Graeme’s shirt off, admiring the way his nipples look pink and hard. “I definitely can’t wait to explore your body,” he murmurs, undoing Graeme’s jeans and pushing everything down to the floor. He fastidiously ignores Graeme’s flushed, leaking cock, instead wrapping his baby boy up in warm, soft pajamas, just like he knows his boy likes.

“You’re really not going to touch me, huh?”

“I’m not. But if you want, you can touch yourself. I won’t mind.” Alan sheds his own clothes, pulling on a pair of sleep shorts and sliding into bed beside Graeme. “I just want to talk a little. Have you been tested since your last partner?”

Graeme nods his head, and Alan raises his brow. “Verbal answers, baby.”

“Yeah, I— yeah. After every time. I gave it up because it made me too anxious, waiting for the results every time.”

Alan rubs over his arm, letting the pleasure show in his face. He needs Graeme to know how well he’s doing. “Good, that’s good. I’m glad you were safe.”

Graeme shivers under Alan’s praise, and Alan raises his eyebrow. “There’s that praise kink again. That’ll be good to know for the future.”

“How far in the future?” Graeme asks, pressing the heel of his hand against his cock.

“There you go, baby, make yourself feel good.” Alan shifts, turning to his side so he can better center his attention on Graeme. “We can talk tomorrow, when we’re both clear headed and not horny or sleepy or coming off a Dom high or coming down from a panic attack—”

“Why can’t we talk now?”

“Because you’re horny and all I want is to take you under deeper.”

“I’ve never felt like this, like it’s going to burst out of my skin,” Graeme says breathlessly.

Alan groans, scooting closer and sweeping Graeme’s bangs aside to kiss his forehead. “Fuck, baby, you and I are going to have _so much fun.”_ He presses kisses lower, by Graeme’s eye, and on his cheek.

There’s a deep red flush over Graeme’s skin, and he’s looking up at Alan like he hung the fucking moon. It’s a head rush, seeing that sweet admiration on Graeme’s face.  “Tell me about what you liked tonight. What parts made you feel the best?”

Graeme slowly rubs over his cock. “I liked...how you talked to Jacob.”

“Which parts?”

“Wh—when you called him pet names. When you told him he was a good boy.”

That’s not entirely new information, but he likes hearing Graeme say it anyway. He watches as Graeme arches a little, trying to get friction against his pants.

He looks Alan directly in the eye. “Can I take it out, Daddy?”

_Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck. Oh Christ that sounds so good—_

“Yeah, of course, baby boy. Make yourself feel good for Daddy.”

Obviously hot, Graeme shoves the covers off and slides his hand under his pants. He groans as he slips his fingers around himself.

“What else did you like?” He keeps his tone low, conversational, like Graeme isn’t pumping his cock a foot away. He feels a tingle of arousal go down his spine, and he almost lets his brow furrow, before he wills it away. This is about Graeme.

“I liked how good you made him feel, during, and afterwards. Like it wasn’t his fault. Like he was going to take his punishment, and feel better after. Like being your baby boy made him good.”

Alan sweeps over Graeme’s brow. “I like that part, too. You _are_ my good boy. How did you feel about the punishment itself?”

“I’d— I’d like to try it? Watching was hot. Watching you was hot, especially when you looked up at me. Like you wanted me to imagine myself there. I don’t know about actually experiencing it.”

“That’s okay." He files away the information for negotiation, later. His own skin feels like it's buzzing, even though he's already had a scene today. Everything about Graeme excites him, makes his brain want to scream _'Yes, I found you! I found you finally!'_   It takes a lot of work to keep his voice even and calm. "You look so pretty stroking yourself for me.”

Graeme groans again, rubbing his thumb over his slit and arching into the air.

Alan leans in to press a kiss to Graeme’s pajama-covered shoulder. “I did want to imagine you there, you know, baby boy. Want to make you feel good. Do you want me to make you feel good?”

Graeme looks up at him, eyes pleading, and Alan can’t resist taking it further. “You want me to bend you over my knee, show the rest of the world what a good boy you can be? Take you to a munch and sit you on my lap the whole time, so everyone knows your mine, you’re my sub, and no one’s allowed to touch you without my permission?”

_“Daddy—”_

“Come for me, baby boy, come for me, that’s it,” he growls.

Watching Graeme come is an experience Alan won’t soon forget. His cheeks are flushed, eyes glassy, forehead sweaty. He arches against his hand, spilling cum all over it, stuttering his hips and groaning. When he’s spent, he sinks into the sheets, exhausted, looking calm. He turns his head a little, and gives Alan a tiny grin.

“Good boy.” Alan scoots closer, helping him clean off with some tissues, and then wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him in.

“Now the aftercare?”

“This is kind of all aftercare, but yeah. Now we come down together.”

“This was my favorite part tonight,” Graeme whispers against the skin of Alan’s neck. He's thoroughly burrowed into Alan's body, feeling perfect against him. One of Alan's hands slides down and presses against the small of Graeme's back, bringing them as close together as they can possibly be.

Alan smiles against his forehead. **“** Don’t get me wrong, I pretty much like the whole shebang, but the mandatory cuddling afterwards is my favorite part, too. It’s essential for the sub, that you feel wanted and loved. It restores the power balance, and helps you fight off sub drop. And,” Alan smiles again, “I like knowing my baby is happy.”

“I’m happy.” Graeme sounds a little like he's admitting some deep, dark secret to the world, and Alan's heart lights up. His Graeme is  _happy,_ and _he_ did that. He made him so. 

Alan squeezes him closer, taking care not to press where he’s still sensitive at his ribs and hip, but unable to stop himself from showing his emotion. “Me, too. Go to sleep now, baby. We’ll figure the rest out tomorrow.”

As Graeme relaxes in his arms, Alan sets the rain sounds album to play, lets his eyes close, and falls asleep with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there we go! Dicks out and acknowledged!
> 
> Negotiations and their first real scene together in the next update. :)


	19. Negotiations, round two: Graeme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alan and Graeme spend a lazy Saturday in kink negotiations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! You get another update this weekend!

There’s something fundamentally different about waking up in Alan’s arms this morning, and yet, it feels the same. More like their foundation has shifted, changed. Grown more stable. Alan’s hand is resting on his hip, and Graeme threads his fingers with Alan’s and pulls Alan closer.

Graeme never had a teddy bear growing up, not like that kind he’s seen in the movies, the huge kind that seems like it would be like hugging a cloud. He’s not sure if Alan would identify as a bear, but Graeme can’t help but think that those huge teddy bears have nothing on being in Alan’s arms.

He’d feel embarrassed about what happened last night, if Alan hadn’t been so obviously into it. His anxiety can make up all sorts of lies, but it can’t make up the _heat_ in Alan’s eyes when he’d called him Daddy.

Graeme squirms, though, thinking about that moment. He might have to have a talk with Clarissa about what it all means.

Alan yawns, a low, rumbly sound, and pulls Graeme more tightly against him. At some point in the night, the cats joined them, so they’re just a huge cuddle pile of skin and fur and warmth and goodness. Graeme burrows himself better into Alan’s arms and lets himself drift. Alan’s soft breath in his ear is enough of a distraction to stop any intrusive thoughts.

Threepio must have sensed he’s awake, though, because he pushes in between them and butts his head against Graeme’s chin. Graeme laughs, just a little, and strokes over his soft fur, feeling the rumble of his purr.

“This is Threepio’s worst habit.” Alan’s voice is low, scratchy with sleep. “Like, hey, human, you’re awake, I missed you so much while you zoned out for—” Alan pauses, looking at his watch, “Fuck, only five hours? Can we take a nap later? We’re definitely taking a nap later.”

His hand matches Graeme’s over Threepio’s back, and Threepio starts drooling, which makes Graeme laugh. “Yeah, he does that, too.”

They pet Threepio together up until he decides he’s had exactly enough, and sprints away to stick up his leg and start washing his dirty fur. Alan’s hand comes to rest on Graeme’s hip, instead, and it draws Graeme’s attention up to Alan’s face.

“Good morning,” Alan murmurs, leaning in to kiss his nose.

Graeme wrinkles it at the tickle of Alan’s beard. “Morning.”

They look at each other for two beats, and then Alan’s sinking his lips over Graeme’s, and Graeme is sighing, and kissing back, and pressing himself into Alan’s body. Kiss bleeds to kiss, feeling so perfect, feeling just right. He’s not sure how long they stay there, but when he finally pulls back, panting, Alan’s lips are red and swollen and _supremely_ kissable.

“We still have to talk.”

Graeme nods, leaning in for one last kiss. “Over breakfast?”

“You have the best ideas.”

“Oh— or…” Graeme drags out the syllable, making Alan grin.

“Or?”

“We could take a bath together.”

“Brilliant.” His hand slides down Graeme’s body, and gooses his ass. “Race you there.”

Graeme scrambles out of bed and into the bathroom, only to turn and see Alan saunter in much more casually. “Tricky.”

“What can I say, sweetheart? You look good coming and going.” He slips his sleep shorts down and tosses them away, and Graeme hums, leaning against the counter and admiring Alan’s body. “Damn, you are good for my ego.”

Graeme tries for a little more seductiveness this time, pulling his pajamas off slowly. There’s just as much appreciation in Alan’s eyes as he imagines are in his.

“I think peppermint this time,” Alan murmurs, turning the bath on and tossing in a scoop of epsom salt. At once, the steamy air smells of candy, bright and vibrant. Alan pulls Graeme to him, inspecting his hip — really, the bruise is a lot better — then sitting him on the counter and standing between his legs to make out.

Eventually, they settle together in the gigantic tub, Alan leaning against the side, and Graeme cushioned between those lovely thighs like he’s always wanted. Alan’s fingers are swiping soap lazily over their bodies, but mostly they're just drifting, letting the water soothe muscles tired from the activities of the night before.

“So, talking,” Graeme starts.

“Talking.” Alan’s lips brush over his neck. “There’s some lists I’d like you to look at later, hard limits — things you absolutely don’t want to try — things you’d try, things you want to do. Do you like the traffic light system?”

Alan sounds businesslike, even though they're naked and pressed against each other, and Graeme appreciates it. “I do. It’s simple enough to remember. I’m not sure how I’d do with random words. It might take me a little while to remember to use them, though.”

“I understand, and I’m okay with that. Some Doms out there might not be willing to play with a newbie, but you’re worth the training.”

Graeme shivers at the word ‘training.’ “I hope so.”

“No, you are. You’re worth it, Graeme. You’re worth everything.”

“Alan,” he whispers, affected.

“You are,” Alan says again, before kissing under his ear. “Like I said, we can hammer out kink details later. I’ve got lists. But there _is_ something I did want to talk about specifically.”

“Yeah?”

“Daddy and Baby Boy.”

“Oh.” Graeme’s heart thumps against his ribcage. “You liked that, right? You seemed like you liked it.”

“I did, I just— I wasn’t expecting to ever—”

A memory drifts through Graeme’s brain. “Is that why you clammed up when Clarissa mentioned the phrase Sugar Daddy?”

“I wasn’t expecting to ever be able to explore that particular kink.” Alan’s arms squeeze around him. “You liked it, too?”

“I did. I— I don’t know. I feel different when I’m your Baby Boy. Good different. Like maybe my brain isn’t as messy. Or, at least, that’s how I felt last night.”

“I mean, it’s certainly worth exploring, if you want. I want to.”

“Consenting adults, right? That’s what Clarissa says.”

“Yeah, just.” Alan sighs. “It’s such a gay stereotype, one of the bad ones, the whole pedo thing, and older men hitting on younger men.” He rests his chin on Graeme’s hair.

“Well, okay, but I’m not underage, and I assume you don’t want someone underage. I mean, I know you’ve played with Barbie, and obviously Jacob, and neither of them look underage.”

“No! I want you.”

“Jacob’s what, like 40?”

“I— yeah, at least, I’d guess. I’m not actually sure.”

“You called _him_ baby boy,” Graeme points out.

“You are...ruthlessly logical when your anxiety brain doesn’t have you.”

Graeme laughs a little. “Yeah, well, the world better watch out when my meds start working.”

 _“I_ better watch out.” He begins to work shampoo into Graeme’s hair. “So, green light on playing around with Daddy and Baby Boy, then?”

“Definitely green.” He closes his eyes as Alan cups water in his hands and rinses his hair, then turns in Alan’s arms so he can perform the same service. And maybe, while he’s there, straddling Alan’s lap, he wraps his arms around Alan’s neck and sinks deep into a kiss.

 

“What about the ace stuff?” Graeme asks as they’re weaving around each other, making breakfast and brewing coffee.

“What do you want to know?”

“I mean. Just. It’s okay? You really don’t mind me getting...aroused?”

Alan grins at his terminology. “I really don’t. I mean, if you don’t want to, I don’t want you to either, but it seems like you have a fairly normal sex drive, and I don’t resent that one bit.”

“Hey, you’re not abnormal or something. It’s just what you like and don’t like.”

“Can I take you along whenever I have to explain my asexuality to someone?” Alan sneaks a kiss on his cheek as he stirs the eggs.

“I just want to make sure that you’re getting what you want, what you need out of this.”

Alan grabs the toast and begins buttering it. **“** It’s about power, for me. Control. Not sexual gratification.”

“Do you— do you ever?”

“Get off?” Alan shrugs. “Don’t often feel the urge, though I can get hard. I can and will top subs, if they want, and if I know them, and I'm fairly sure I'm no good at it. I have a really hard time getting hard for anyone I don’t know very well, which is what led me to think, hey, maybe I’m demi? But then some people will just set me off?” He glances over at Graeme. “Like you.”

“What do you mean?” Graeme asks, licking his lips.

“I rarely, ever, feel like fucking anyone. And I’ve wanted to fuck you pretty much since we met.”

Graeme swallows and blushes at the look in Alan’s eyes. It’s almost like he’s surprised at himself. “I would...be totally okay with that. And you should let your, um, sub be the judge of whether or not you're good at topping, not some asshole ex.”

Alan's eyes glitter a little, and he pulls Graeme in for a hug, then releases him just as quickly. “Do you have any experience with penetration?”

“My own fingers.” His cheeks are flaming as he turns to dish up eggs.

“Hey. No need to be embarrassed, sweetie.” Alan kisses his cheek and pulls him down onto a stool to eat breakfast. “Besides, that’s good, that means you won’t know if I suck or not.”

Graeme laughs even as he looks at Alan, trying for his sternest face. “I’m sure you don’t suck. You don’t suck at the other stuff. You’re—” _Magnificent. Perfect. Beautiful. Powerful._

“I _do_ suck, and rather well,” Alan jokes, and Graeme has to laugh again, knowing they can come back to this subject later.

“What about blow jobs, for you? I like — I want to — I’ve liked giving them in the past?”

Alan squeezes his hand. “I’d like to explore it with you. I haven’t ever really liked them, from an arousal standpoint? But I’d like to try. You’re...like I said. I don’t know what the fuck I am, ace, demi, gray, whatever. Maybe my sexuality is Graeme fucking Webster.”

“Reid.”

“What?”

Graeme grins. “That’s my middle name. Graeme Reid Webster.”

Alan laughs, a full hearty laugh, and brings Graeme’s knuckles up for a kiss. “Smartass.”

 

“Okay, so, hard nos on watersports, scat play, and edge play, too.” Alan, businesslike again, puts Xs through boxes on a new contract — one specifically drawn up for their play, and having nothing to do with their other arrangement. The papers are all laid out on the coffee table. “Yes to impact play, but just FYI, I’m absolutely not hitting you until you’re completely healed from the accident.”

A small part of Graeme is disappointed, but he nods.

“Costumes, dress up, breathplay, penetration, plugs— you’ve never used a plug before, right?”

Graeme can’t help but laugh a little at the way Alan is very seriously chewing on his pen as he looks through the paperwork. “I haven’t. I’d like to try, though, obviously, since it’s in that column.”

“Right, of course.” More marks. “Okay, so here’s mine. Basically compatible, with some things I still haven’t tried that I’d like to.” He points them out to Graeme, who nods. Shibari is one of them — Alan knows some basic rope techniques but hasn’t tried anything more complicated.

Graeme has some questions marks, too, mostly about things involving Alan’s actual dick. “What about this?” He taps on cock warming, which Alan doesn’t have marked as a no, but not as a yes, either.

“Talk to me about it,” Alan says, watching Graeme’s face.

“It seems— well, I liked giving blow jobs before, right? And this is kind of like that, but for a long time?”

“Yeah, or you’re literally sitting on my dick while I do other stuff.”

Graeme feels himself go hard at the thought. “I, um, find that really exciting. Like, I don’t know, just— spending a long time making you happy. Maybe spending a while in subspace. I know I haven’t— I mean it’s not like I have a lot of experience with subspace or anything, just that last night, it was— when you came and found me, and started taking care of me, that part— that part was good. Really good. Like. My brain was totally quiet, good.”  

Alan’s fingers edge across his back as he pulls him in for a small hug. “I want you to feel that, too. There’s potential, if we’re looking at oral, because I don’t have to be hard for that. I’m not sure how long I could stay hard if you were just sitting on my dick.”

Alan looks like he’s disappointed in himself for that, and no, that just won’t do, Graeme thinks. He turns into Alan’s arms, pulling him in for a slow kiss. “Hey, you know what? That’s what they make dildos for, right? It’s okay, Alan, seriously.”

“I’d be willing to try, for you.”

Graeme cups his face. “Just as long as the traffic lights go both ways.”

“Of course.” Alan leans in and presses a kiss to Graeme’s brow. He sinks back into the couch and pulls Graeme into a straddle over his lap. “How’s that on your hip?”

“Feels just fine.” Graeme wraps his arms around Alan’s neck, loving the feeling of Alan’s solid body beneath him. He crushes their lips together, mindless to anything but Alan.

Alan’s hands smooth gently over his hips, then squeeze at his thighs, exploring down his jean-clad legs. His fingers play at the hem of the jeans, brushing over his ankles, playing with the thin hair on his legs there. The sensation is delicious, and Graeme leans more heavily into Alan, trying to get closer somehow.

“Your feet are so cute,” Alan murmurs against his lips, then blushes. “Not in a fetish way, not that there’s anything wrong with that, I just— I just love seeing your bare feet out when we’re home. With your cute painted toenails.”

Graeme blushes, pleased. “You don’t think they’re girly?”

“What the fuck is girly, anyway? I’m going to pull Mal in here to have a discussion with you about gender norms. The painted nails, they’re just you.” Alan pulls him back in for another kiss.

“I need to dig out my supplies and redo them,” Graeme says when they break apart for air. “I like to paint them for relaxation, kind of as a coping method. It's methodical, and slow, and centering. But I wasn't sure if you'd— it gets kind of smelly, and... Anyway, I haven't done it in awhile and now they’re all sad and chipped.”

"I don't mind the smell. This apartment is your home, too, baby."

Graeme's heart swells, and he sinks in for another kiss at Alan's answer.

Alan hums in thought, his hands settled on Graeme’s ass once again when they break the kiss. “Would you like to do a small scene today? Nothing too intense, but more like exploration? Are you feeling comfortable enough for that?”

Graeme lets his eyes close — he has trouble concentrating when Alan is looking at him with that intense gaze — and tries to truly think about it rather than just jumping in without looking. “What did you have in mind?” He rests his head on Alan’s shoulder.

Alan strokes over his back. “Well, your chipped nails gave me an idea. I’d like to get to know your body. It’d mostly be an exploratory thing for me, I guess, to get to know what you like. What turns you on. I’d serve you. Paint your nails. Give you a massage with some nice lotion. Worship your body. Maybe finger you until you come for me, so pretty and pink.”

Graeme’s fingers clutch into Alan’s shirt. “That— I mean, who the fuck would turn that down? But it sounds like it’s all about me.”

“It _is._ That’s what makes me happy, baby,” Alan murmurs. “It would also give me a chance to start learning what sends you under, what brings you out, how it all intersects with your anxiety. I want to get a good handle on that before we do anything intense.”

“It might be a good idea to let my body get used to the meds before we do anything intense, anyway. I’ll be a bit unpredictable until then.”

Alan’s hand sweeps through Graeme’s fade, cupping the back of his head. “Smart.”

Graeme laughs. “I was expecting you to say ‘ass’ after that.”

Alan’s laugh is deep, rumbling through his chest. “You can’t have a smartass without a smart person who also happens to have a very fine ass.” He illustrates his point by squeezing Graeme’s asscheek as Graeme laughs again.

Graeme captures Alan’s questing hand and thread their fingers together, meeting his eyes. “I’d like to try that scene with you. I trust you.”

The look of pleasure in Alan’s eyes is enough to make Graeme shiver.


	20. The First Scene - Alan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like he promised, Alan gets to know Graeme's body in their first real scene.

Alan lets them linger through the morning, but never quite takes his hands off of Graeme. They settle into the couch together, Alan typing away on his phone and Graeme knitting, held close between Alan’s legs. He wants Graeme to get used to his touch, until it causes no anxiety, not that touch has been a trigger for Graeme before, but— but he just wants to make sure he really nails this for Graeme. Graeme, who knew nothing of the kink scene a matter of days ago. Graeme, who has put all of his trust in Alan, despite Alan knowing that he doesn't give that trust away easily. He feels his own anxiety at making this perfect for Graeme, until finally he has to admit to himself that it doesn't need to be perfect. It's okay if it's not perfect. It just needs to be not traumatizing. He thinks he can hit that rather low bar. 

By the time he's come to this realization, he also notices that Graeme seems jumpy under his touch, like he’s not sure when the scene is going to start and what he should be doing. Alan tosses his phone onto the coffee table and wraps his arms around Graeme’s waist, pulling him close, but not too hard he’d hurt Graeme’s ribs. “We’re going to eat some lunch, and then we’re going into the scene, okay? I’ll be explicit about when we’re starting and ending.” 

Graeme seems to melt a little in relief. “Oh, okay.” 

_ Christ, Garry, really good start on the whole not traumatizing thing. _

“What do you want for lunch?” he presses a kiss under Graeme’s ear. “I make a mean peanut butter and jelly sandwich.” 

Graeme laughs. “Yeah, that’d be fine.” 

“You’re probably going to be secretly judging me the whole time, Master Chef.” 

“Secretly?” Graeme turns, winking at him and pecking him on the cheek. 

_ God, how am I already so deep in? _ “Have mercy.”

“But then how will you ever learn?”

“Man, you really believe in the school of hard knocks, huh?”

The banter has settled Graeme even further, and Alan makes sure to keep it up as they transition to the kitchen to make sandwiches together. There are moments when it feels like he’s been teasing Graeme for years, like he’s known him, like they just  _ fit. _

When they finish eating, Alan gathers up their dishes. “While I clean up, would you go get your nail stuff, sweetie?”

Graeme hops off of his stool, then looks uncertainly down at the old tee and jeans he’d thrown on after breakfast. “Should I— do you want me to change? Or get naked?”

“You look perfect. I’d rather unwrap you myself.” 

Graeme turns a beautiful shade of pink and hurries off toward the guest — _his_ — bedroom. 

When Alan’s done with the dishes, he saunters off to their bedroom and starts pulling out supplies — lube, lotion, towels, water, a small Njoy plug that’s been a past favorite. He hears a noise by the door, and looks up, seeing Graeme hovering there, looking small and more than a little scared. 

“Color?” Alan asks gently, letting his voice carry across the bedroom. 

Graeme seems to come back into himself a bit, shaking his head, bringing over his supplies. “Green,” he says determinedly, sitting down beside Alan on the bed. “Does that mean we started?”

“No, I just like the stoplight system for lots of things. It’s an easy way to check in.” Alan shrugs, running his hand over Graeme’s knee. “I’d like to have a signal, though, for starting and stopping, and I have an idea.” 

“Oh?”

“I am not interested in the type of Dom/sub relationship that extends beyond sexual power play.” At Graeme’s confused look, Alan elaborates, “There are some relationships where the sub is a sub...all the time. I’m not interested in that. I— it’s not to knock it, at all, whatever works for people works for people, you know? Just, that doesn’t work for me.” 

“I don’t think that works for me either, but I don’t really know.” 

“That’s fair. I just— I really love when you call me Daddy. I just don’t want you to do it anywhere but here. In private, in a scene.” 

“So that would be a signal? Me calling you Daddy?”

“And me calling you Baby Boy.” 

“And to end it…”

“Back to regular names. Restore the balance. Also, it makes the names special,” he adds with a grin. “How does that sound?”

Graeme shrugs. “I’m willing to try it, at least.” 

Alan brushes over Graeme’s cheek. “Perfect attitude. Nothing is set in stone except hard nos. We’re just trying everything.” Graeme gives him a little smile at that. “So, before we start, I thought maybe I’d take you through everything I might use on you in this scene.” 

Alan doesn’t miss the little shiver Graeme gives when he says ‘use on you.’ 

“Do you need me to tell you how to do my nails?”

Alan laughs. “Oh, no, growing up with Sam has that covered.”

He takes Graeme through the short and easy list of supplies, Graeme growing redder by the second.  _ Sweet little sub, _ Alan thinks as he watches Graeme try to overcome his shyness. “We’re going to try the plug, for the amount of time you have to sit still for your toes to dry, how does that sound?”

Graeme works his jaw, already struggling for words. “Good. It’s sounds really good.” 

“Are you ready to start, baby boy?”

Graeme meets his eyes directly. “Yes…Daddy.” 

“Good boy. What’re your safe words?”

“Green, yellow, red.” 

“And where are you at right now, baby boy?”

“Green.” 

“Good.” He eases them back to lay on the bed, his hand smoothing over the fabric of Graeme’s shirt. “I don’t know your body, yet. I think we should change that, don’t you think? I want to know you, inside and out. I want to know every spot that makes you gasp, makes your cock twitch, makes you crazy with want.” 

_ “Daddy.” _ Graeme sounds shocked, scandalized, already falling into the headspace apparently. 

Alan grins. He pushes the tee shirt up out of the way, over Graeme’s head, and thumbs over one nipple. “Do you like that, baby? Do your nipples get hard when I rub them?” 

Graeme whines, thrusting his chest out a little. 

“Well, that’s an invitation I just can’t resist.” Alan lowers his head, capturing one nipple between his teeth and tugging lightly, then licking, then sucking, never the same thing for too long, as Graeme gasps and pulls him closer. Alan trails kisses over to the other nipple, then gives it the same treatment. “What a pretty color you turn, baby boy. Look how your chest is all pink and flushed. Makes me want to bite.” 

He does, biting down on Graeme’s chest lightly, then sucking a mark, right over his heart. He leans back to admire his handiwork, something visceral inside him roaring at the mark. One hand still on Graeme’s flat stomach, kept there to steady him, Alan reaches for the lotion. “Time to relax, baby. Let your mind wander as far as feels good. I have you safe, right here.”

Keeping a close eye on Graeme’s face, to begin what he hopes will be a good, long study of Graeme Webster’s pleasure, Alan begins to rub lotion into Graeme’s skin. He smooths it over his shoulders and down each arm, massaging as he goes, until Graeme’s arms are hanging like limp noodles at his sides. He starts again at Graeme’s neck, and works down his chest, mindful of his ribs. The bruising is much better, but Alan leans over to place a fluttering kiss on them anyway. Strange to think that something that hurt his baby boy so badly is what brought them together in the first place. 

All the while, Graeme is making the most delicious little sounds, groans and moans and grunts of pleasure.  _ Screw rain sounds, _ Alan thinks.  _ I’m going to record  _ **_this._ **

“While I get to know you, baby, I might be naggy about the colors,” he warns quietly, leaning over to kiss Graeme’s cheek. “How are we doing so far?”

When Graeme’s eyes drift open, they’re hazy. Alan searches them for any vestige of anxiety, but, at least for now, they seem clear of that. “Green,” Graeme whispers back. 

“Good, very good, my baby boy. You’re so responsive.” His hand slips down over where Graeme’s cock is bulging against his jeans. “So hard for me.” 

“All for you, Daddy.” 

Alan groans, sucking a mark on Graeme’s collar bone where it won’t show at work. “That’s right. You’re all mine. Don’t let any other boys touch you like this, baby.” It’s half role-play, half truth, as Alan feels possessiveness streak through him. 

“I won’t, just you, Daddy, I promise.” 

Alan works Graeme’s pants open and down, his cock springing free, finally. Kissing his way down Graeme’s body, Alan pulls his pants all the way off and throws them to the floor, letting himself take in the beautiful sight that is his baby boy, all flushed pink and sweaty on his bed. He lets Graeme see it, too, the open admiration in his eyes, the open pleasure. “You’re exquisite.” 

Graeme shivers. 

Meticulously, Alan works his way down Graeme’s legs, one at a time once again, doing his best to find the kinks Graeme gets from standing all day long for work and loosening them. When he’s done, his boy is silky smooth with lotion, and as pliant as putty. He’s not quite sure how deep Graeme is in subspace, or how deep he’ll ever go, but he’s there, at least partially, from the body worship. Enough for Alan to think that touch, sensation, is key. 

Oh yes, he can’t wait to try stim play with Graeme. He makes a mental note to order some more body wax. 

He works Graeme’s cute little thighs last. They’d look good in fishnets, he thinks. He kneads softly and spreads them apart, exposing Graeme’s hole to him. 

“Dad—daddy?”

Alan’s head whips up to see uncertainty on Graeme’s face. He’s not sure whether it’s coming from his newness or the role play. Chewing his lip, he decides not to ask for a color yet. “Yes, baby boy?”

“Are you going to touch me, there?”

“I’d like to, if you want me to, baby.” 

“I just— I didn’t really tell you— I’ve— no one else has ever—” Graeme stammers over his words, face bright red. 

“Are you a virgin, my baby?” Alan’s voice is husky, and amazingly, he feels his cock start to fill. Jesus, his boy is going to be the death of him. 

Graeme gives a tiny nod. 

Alan crawls up the bed, cupping Graeme’s face. “You waited just for me, huh, baby?”

Graeme nods again, arching up to try and capture his lips. Because he’s so pleased, even if it’s all just role play, Alan lets him, sinking in together. 

“You are magnificent. I’m going to be so careful with you, baby, don’t you worry. You’re going to feel so good.” 

He picks up the lube, next, and goes back down between Graeme’s spread thighs, admiring the little pucker between them. He slicks his thumb and swipes it around the rim, tight and unyielding. Like Graeme is a shying horse, Alan strokes over his thigh and slowly, ever so slowly, pushes the tip of his index finger in. Graeme is immediately responsive, moaning and lifting his hips, trying to fuck himself. Alan grins, and kisses the inside of Graeme’s thigh. Oh yes, they’re going to have a lot of fun together. 

He moves Graeme’s hands, which are clutching at the sheets, under his ass, instead, pinned down, just a little, the easiest kind of pin to break. “Keep these here. I’m still exploring. You don’t get to come until I tell you you can, okay, baby boy?”

“Okay.” 

“Okay, what?”

“Okay, Daddy.” Graeme looks at him, blatantly seeking approval, and Alan gives it, pressing a second finger in and beginning the search for his prostate. His grin is broad, and Graeme looks almost high with it, like he’s living off of that approval. Alan can’t stop murmuring how good he is, how responsive, how perfect, and Graeme soaks it up like a lizard in the sun. 

“That’s it, baby boy. Just let yourself feel. Just let it all go.” 

Graeme groans when Alan finally finds his prostate. “Oh, oh fuck—” His cock is absolutely  _ weeping _ precum against his stomach, and he moans, his hips shifting, trying to take Alan deeper. Alan won’t allow it, keeping a steady pace that’s  _ wrecking _ Graeme. 

Alan times it carefully, and when Graeme looks like he’s just about to lose it, he backs off, fingers slipping out to Graeme’s sad moan. “Just for a second, baby. Don’t want you to come too soon. I’m going to put the plug in you, now. What’s your color?”

Graeme doesn’t respond, dick still twitching, chest heaving. 

Alan waits a few beats, noting the reaction times mentally, checking Graeme’s face to try and discern if he’s spiraling. “Graeme, baby boy, I need you to tell me your color.” 

“Mmm?” 

Alan crawls up, cupping Graeme’s face and pressing kisses everywhere. “Color?”

“Green,” he slurs. “Shit— sorry, Daddy, green—”

“It’s okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you, and you’re safe, and you did a beautiful job. This is part of us getting to know each other.” He showers more kisses on Graeme’s face before heading back down. 

Slicking the metal plug up with lube, he spreads Graeme’s legs again and slips the plug inside, just like that. Graeme grunts, arches a little, as the plug’s heavy head settles against his prostate. 

“Okay, baby boy, it’s time to do your nails.” Graeme just grunts again, and Alan laughs a little. “You’re going to look so pretty with your shiny red toes again. Here, let me help you up.” 

“Oh, shit—” Graeme gasps, as the plug readjusts inside of him at the seated position Alan pulls him up into. He rocks his hips, grinding a little on the bed. 

Alan smirks. “You have my permission to do that on two conditions — one, that you don’t move hard enough that I mess up, and two, that you don’t come. Remember, only Daddy gets to decide when you come.” 

To his surprise, Graeme lifts up a little and tucks his hands under his ass again, nodding. “I can do that, Daddy.” 

Alan smiles widely. “Yes you can, you good boy. I just want you to sit there, and make yourself feel good, and let Daddy take care of you.” 

He’s as meticulous with Graeme’s nails as he was with his body, carefully rubbing off every last vestige of old paint with the remover, blowing on them to dry them and watch Graeme’s feet twitch. His attention is split between Graeme’s nails and his face, but what he sees there is encouraging. 

“I’m okay,” Graeme murmurs after one of these checks. “I mean, I’m green.” 

Alan leans forward, kissing Graeme’s knee. “‘I’m okay’ works, too.” 

“I don’t— I don’t know how to explain it, like— I just— you just need me to exist, you don’t need anything from me, I just have to exist to make you happy.” 

“You make me very happy, baby boy. Especially to see you like this.” He pushes up to brush a hand over Graeme’s forehead, moving his sweaty bangs out of the way. 

“I’ve never felt so free,” Graeme whispers, and Alan’s heart contracts. 

He groans, pulling Graeme in for a kiss, rocking him against his plug a little harder, taking control of his body movements. “You’re free, and safe, and mine. And I’m not done with you yet, sweetheart.” 

Carefully, he threads paper towel between Graeme’s toes and paints the nails. By the time he’s done, Graeme is in a state again, chest heaving, hips rocking ever so slightly to grind on the plug. 

“Such a good, patient boy. Just a little while longer, just until it’s dry, that’s how long you have to wait.” 

“Can I have a kiss, Daddy?”

Alan walks his fingers up Graeme’s body. “When you ask so sweetly, how can I resist?”

He circles his thumb and index finger around Graeme’s cock, stroking once to make him whimper, then squeezing tightly at the base so he can’t come too early. They spend the minutes waiting for the polish to dry just like that, making out, rocking Graeme on his plug, not letting him come. By the time his nails are dry, he’s desperate underneath Alan.

“Daddy— please,” he gasps. “Please, I need to come—”

“What a nice way to ask,” Alan murmurs. “You’ve been such a good boy. I want you to come down my throat.” 

Graeme’s eyes fly open when Alan’s mouth slips over the head of his cock, and their eyes meet. He takes the plug in one hand, pressing it onto Graeme’s prostate again and again, picking up the pace as his tongue swirls over the head, sweeping up the precum that’s been leaking there. 

Graeme’s eyes go blurry, unfocused when he comes with a shout. Alan swallows it all greedily as Graeme collapses back to the bed, utterly exhausted. Alan crawls up again and watches his face, a contentment deep inside blooming because of the happiness he finds there. He brought Graeme to this. He made this, made him. 

He lets himself indulge in that feeling for a while before he starts to clean Graeme up. He sets the plug aside to clean later, wipes off excess lube, and pulls Graeme into his arms, murmuring warm words of praise in his ear. 

Eventually, Graeme shivers, and snuggles closer. 

“Welcome back, Graeme,” Alan says softly, careful to use Graeme’s name, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “How are you feeling?”

Graeme hums, obviously not verbal yet, but that’s okay. “I’m going to get us dressed, all right?” Alan doesn’t wait for a response, but gets up to find his comfiest pajamas to wrap Graeme in.

The movement rouses Graeme a little more. “I liked that,” he murmurs, and it’s good to hear, even if it was obvious. 

“You did a really good job. It was a good first scene.” 

“And you’re— you’re good?” His fingers trail down to Alan’s hip, but he doesn’t explore further. 

“I’m so very good. I don’t know how to explain how… how  _ good _ it feels to take care of someone else, to be in control, to have the power over their pleasure...your pleasure. Believe me, I am very,  _ very _ good right now.” 

“Good,” Graeme says with a small smile. Alan laughs appreciatively. 

“How are you feeling right now?”

“Tired, mostly. Warm and sleepy and … good.” Graeme grins. 

“Do you want to nap, or do you want me to force you to get up so you can sleep later?”

Graeme groans, burying himself in Alan’s neck. “Nap.”

“Perfect.” Alan holds him closely, satisfied to his core at the languid pleasure in Graeme’s voice. So, no trauma, no anxiety, no spiraling. A good foundation to build upon.  


Graeme hums agreeably again, his eyes drifting shut. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the plan is probably to ramp up update releases because I'd like to have this all published before I head to summer grad school. Then I'll be able to focus on class, and, um, cough, writing the sequel to this. :D So FYI, expect more updates in the next two weeks, finishing before Friday, June 22, probably.


	21. Passing Time - Graeme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time passes - and maybe they aren't being as communicative as they need to be.

**Alan:** Hey cutie

**Alan:** Just wanted you to know you’re awesome

**Alan:** Hope your day is going well

**Alan:** I saw this and it made me think of you

_ <<Alan has sent image.jpg>> _

**Alan:** Bet yours are knitted with more love, though

Graeme finds all of these texts on his phone at his break between the lunch and dinner rushes. The picture is a screenshot of an ad on one of Alan’s tech sites featuring huge, chunky knitted scarves wrapped sumptuously around the necks of the models. 

He smiles as he unwraps the sandwich he made this morning for his lunch. 

**Graeme:** They are. Love in every stitch. Genuine. 

The message immediately goes to “read” and then the three little dots appear. 

**Alan:** Smartass.

**Alan:** Are you on break right now?

**Graeme:** Yeah

As he’d expected, the phone begins to ring in his hand, and Alan’s name pops up. “Hey, Alan.” 

He lets his voice portray every ounce of affection he feels - he's alone in the break room, no one to give him shit or anything, so he feels comfortable doing so. 

“Hey sweetheart. Just checking in with you.” Alan’s talking kind of low, so Graeme figures he must still be in Kent for family brunch. 

“I’m feeling okay.” 

Alan makes a little noise of commiseration. “Can I say that I hate that you work on Sundays without sounding like a rich privileged douchebag?” 

Graeme laughs a little. “Hey, I’d rather be with you, too.”

“I’m going to miss you tonight for dinner.” 

“Don’t just eat out, Alan. At least make yourself a quesadilla, I know you can do it.” 

Now Alan makes a grumpy sound, and Graeme laughs again. “Fine, fine,” Alan finally concedes, at Graeme’s prodding. “Hey, so. If at any point in time today you start to feel a little low, call me, okay?” 

Graeme’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

Alan’s voice goes low again. “It’s a thing that can happen after a scene. You get a lot of endorphins in your system, you’re feeling good, and then, you crash. We call it sub drop. Not always, but it happens, and since we know your brain has an atypical mix of chemicals anyway, because of your disorder, I just wanted you to be aware.” 

“I feel…” Graeme chews his lip. “I mean, I feel tired, and I hate this job a little more every day, but I don’t feel — abnormally low?” 

“Good.” Alan’s voice is calm, soothing in his ear. “Just, if you do start to feel bad, and you can’t explain it as, like, a bad interaction with a customer or whatever, take a break and call me, okay? Whenever you can. You did so well yesterday, Graeme.” 

The praise washes over him like a balm. “Thanks.” 

“I should probably let you eat.” 

“Or you could tell me about your day with your family  _ while _ I eat.” 

Alan chuckles. “That’s what I like about you, baby. Always thinking.” 

 

Alan joins him in the shower that night, pressing kisses into his skin as he washes Graeme’s body. The kisses don’t lead to sex, or a scene, just comforting touches that make Graeme feel loved. He hopes he returns the favor adequately, pressing up against Alan’s side on the couch as he knits, as Alan reads, as rain sounds play on his phone. The cats are curled up with them, and though he’s exhausted from his shift, Graeme is...content.

 

Of course, it doesn't last. Graeme's brain will always find a way to fuck things up, and this time, he starts to slowly obsess over the fact that they haven't had another scene, haven't really had anything approaching sex, since nail-painting session. Alan's not pushing him, of course. It's just that they're, well, busy. 

They've settled into a routine over the last few weeks, inasmuch as two people who don’t have strictly 9-5 jobs can settle into a routine. But still, it’s comfortable, and warm, and content, up until it isn't. Part of Graeme's brain is always waiting for Alan to wake up one day and decide he’s too much work. He constantly feels like he doesn’t give Alan enough in return for what Alan gives him. It’s a constant nagging worry in his brain, causing him to spiral a couple of times. He doesn't mention it to Alan - it's his own thing to deal with, he knows that, and Alan has enough on his plate. Besides, the meds are starting to work, maybe, because he’s able to stop the spiral at least once without any outside intervention. 

With Graeme needing to pay back shift coverage, and get on Jeremy’s good side again, he’s been working basically non-stop, going twelve days without a day off here, another 10 there, and so on. He can see the worry in Alan’s eyes, and tries to reassure him that he’s okay, he's fine, he's used to it. That seems to make Alan upset, but he doesn't press Graeme to quit or look for different work, always respecting the safety Graeme feels in independence.   


Alan is always like that. Respectful. Not pushy. A damn near perfect boyfriend. And what has Graeme given in return? A boyfriend who works odd hours and comes home smelling like the sickly-sweet of evaporated soda and fry oil and burger grease and mop muck. Of _course_ Alan hasn't wanted to do a scene, Graeme's _disgusting._

He feels badly, because Alan hasn't done a scene in weeks, either. It's not like Alan's going to events without him. Mostly they just end up sprawled on the couch, in their pajamas, watching old sci-fi shows that Alan adores while the cats snore on them. And he knows Alan is ace and all, but even when Graeme suggests that he would be fine with Alan calling up Jacob or Barbie or another sub he's liked to play with in the past, Alan politely declines and snuggles Graeme to him. 

_‘He’s a monogamous sort of guy.’_ Barbie’s words echo back to him.

It’s not like he _wants_ Alan to go find someone else to play with, he just feels like a fuckup of a boyfriend that he's too exhausted to do so.   


Anxiety requires action: a lesson taught to him by the therapist he'd had in high school, and one Clarissa concurs with. He hasn't told her _why_ the relationship is making him anxious, because the thing is, he knows it's all a figment of his imagination, and she'll very slowly, very rationally tell him so. And he just doesn't need that kind of rationality in his life right now.    


Anxiety requires action, and Graeme makes a plan. He'll make Alan happy, no matter what. 

 

It's the tenth night in a string of fifteen; Graeme's exhausted, but he psyches himself up in the shower. He takes special care making sure not one single millimeter of his skin or hair smells like The Burger Joint. He paints his nails methodically, in a pretty pink Alan had seen at a drug store and bought him — _"It made me think of you, I don't know. Pink and grey together again."_

Dressed in one of Alan's big tees and boxer briefs, he sits down in Alan’s lap, straddling him. “Hi, Daddy,” he whispers in Alan’s ear, looping his arms around his neck and pulling him into a deep kiss. 

When he pulls back, Alan’s brow is furrowed, and he looks surprised. “What— I— baby?”

“You should tell me what you want me to do.” Graeme attempts to sound seductive, but he must not pull it off very well, because Alan’s frown deepens. 

“Graeme, sweetie, what is this? You’ve got shadows under your eyes the size of dinner plates and you worked a 12 hour shift today, you can’t tell me you actually want to play right now.” Alan’s hands are petting through Graeme’s hair, soothing when his words might be too harsh for Graeme’s anxiety. 

“I want to make you happy. Be a good boyfriend. How can I make you happy?” 

“Baby, you already make me happy, I don’t understand— you don’t seem to actually want this—”

Graeme clutches at Alan’s shirt and, embarrassingly, begins to cry. "It's the smell, isn't it."   


Alan manages to look even more confused. "I— what?"

"I smell gross." Graeme sniffles, tracing over the raised design on Alan's tee.

"You're, um...how to put this... I think you're fixated on this, um, smell, more than anyone else around you, sweetie." He cups Graeme's face. "Graeme, baby, what's this about?"

It's the tenderness that sends Graeme over, tears spilling onto his cheeks. He sniffles again, swiping at the tears as if he could erase them. “I hate my job, Alan.” 

Alan’s hands are stroking over his back, now. “I know, baby, I know, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay.” 

“I hate that I’m a bad boyfriend because of my job, like I’m not a good enough multi-tasker to even do two things.” 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, okay. Let’s reframe, here.” Alan presses a kiss to his brow. “First of all, you have way more than two things you’re doing. You’re a boyfriend, sure, and an employee, which, by the way, you’re working way more than full time so that has to count for at least one and a half things. Also, you’re working with a therapist to help declutter your brain, and that’s more than some people. And, you’re still recovering. I don’t care if the bruises have faded, sweetheart, I still see you wince when you come home.” 

Graeme digests that, his fingers tracing over Alan’s chest. “That's... entirely too rational."   


Alan gives a little laugh, letting it open more when Graeme gives him a small smile. He pulls Graeme into a hug. “How much longer are you going to need to work this hard to get your standing back at the Burger Joint?”

Graeme shrugs. “I mean, they own me for life, basically.” 

“They do  _ not, _ honey.” 

“I can’t lose that job.”

“I know,” Alan whispers, though his voice is tight with something — anger, maybe? But then he sighs, and it’s gone. “The other point: you’re not a bad boyfriend at all. And of the two of us, I have more past experience in that department, so, you know, let me be the judge of that.” 

“We haven’t had sex in 3 weeks,” Graeme whispers. 

There’s a silence, long enough for Graeme to look up to Alan’s face. Alan, surprisingly, looks baffled. “I— well. I’m obviously not going to say that’s not a big deal, because it is to you, of course. I just— I guess I was worried that I pushed you too fast?” One of his thumbs traces over Graeme’s cheek, wiping away the wetness there. 

“You— I thought maybe you didn’t like it very much with me—”

“And you’ve seemed so tired—”

“And I’m still not sure exactly what it means that you’re ace—”

“And—” Alan cuts himself off, then smiles, looking tired, but happy. He leans forward until their foreheads are touching. “We need to talk more, obviously.” 

“Can we talk now?’

“Yeah, baby, of course.” He slides his lips briefly over Graeme’s, and Graeme sighs, and melts a little in his lap. “Back when I was at my peak, I was playing normally once a month, maybe twice. I’ve really never been that active, so I didn’t really think anything of, uh, taking three weeks off, especially with how hard you’ve been working.”

“Oh. That, uh, makes a lot of sense, actually,”  _ What a stupid, stupid thing to get worked up about, Graeme— _

“Shhh, no, Graeme, sweetie, it’s okay. Try not to spiral for me, please. Let’s breathe.” 

Graeme nods, placing a hand on Alan’s chest and syncing his breaths with Alan’s. It takes a few moments, but it works. “I don’t— I— I’m always going to need a lot of reassurance, Alan, no matter how well my meds work, which, hey, spiral stopped.” He tries a weak smile. 

“Hey, nice work.” Alan pulls him in for another kiss. “I didn’t think of scenes as reassurance, which is pretty boneheaded on my part, of course someone could think that.”

Graeme tightens his arms around Alan and hugs him tightly. “I want to explore more with you, Alan. I want— I want us to carve out time for it, if we have to. When I’m—” He chokes on the next words, burying his face in Alan’s neck as he realizes what he was about to say. And maybe that's where this all came from anyway. Not worry that Alan isn't getting what he needs because Graeme's too tired, but...  


Alan waits him out, slowly rubbing over back.

“When I’m your baby boy, I feel like I’m— like I’m actually worthy of— of love and happiness and— It’s just— really hard to give up, you know?”

“Oh, sweetie,” Alan sighs, squeezing him. “You are worthy of love and happiness all the time, always, forever, no matter what.” He presses a hundred tiny kisses to Graeme’s face, making Graeme smirk a little and wrinkle his nose. “We can work on getting you to accept that outside of subspace. I think that would be a good thing to bring up with Clarissa, either together or separately, your choice. And if we’re doing that, working outside of scenes...then yeah, I think we could pick up the pace a little.” 

Graeme presses his hand to Alan’s chest. “I don’t want you to force yourself to—”

Alan just chuckles a little. “So, um. I didn’t tell you about it, because I’m an idiot and obviously I need to work on communicating a little better, but, that first scene we did? I got hard.” Alan looks inordinately pleased with himself. 

“Wait, you did? But you didn’t want me to do anything about it,” Graeme huffs, trying not to be offended. 

“Well, I didn’t feel the need to get off. There’s a lot more at stake at the end of a scene than me getting off, like making sure you’re okay, which I care a hell of a lot more about. However,” and Alan grins, holding up his hand and taking Graeme’s, “I’d like to explore that a little more, I guess. I’ve pretty much decided that I’m never going to nail down exactly what I am, and I’m working my way towards being okay with that, and I feel like part of that is...seeing where it takes me, I guess, and having fun with it, rather than ignoring it. My dick, I mean.” 

Graeme throws back his head and laughs, because Christ, how did he get his hands on this man? “Well, mister, I’d, uh, be happy to help you have fun with it.”

 

“Okay, I’m just double checking that your sure about this.” 

Graeme pierces Alan with a look, then slides to his knees, landing on the conveniently placed pillow, and arches a brow. “Green, Daddy.” 

Alan grins. “Sassy today, huh?” He brushes through Graeme’s hair, then pulls it a little to bring him up and grind their lips together. “Heaven forbid your Daddy worry about you on the one day off you have this week.” 

“Maybe you should tie me up as punishment.” 

Alan’s hand makes a fist in his hair, tugging deliciously. He pauses, waiting to see if Graeme is going to color out, probably, but Graeme holds his ground, on his knees for his Daddy, already starting to fly high. “Somehow I don’t think that would be a punishment, baby boy.” 

He eases his sweatpants down a little, just enough to get his cock out. It is, unsurprisingly, soft, but that’s all to plan, anyway. Graeme licks his lips at the sight of it. Alan’s fingers lose their grip on his hair, and he reaches for one of Graeme’s hands, placing it on his knee. “Tap or squeeze three times if you need to slow down or stop, okay? I’ll pull out and we’ll stop and see what you need.”

“Yes, Daddy.” 

Alan grins. “Oh, someone’s trying to make up for it, huh? Show me that you know how to signal.” 

Obediently, because his goal is within sight, Graeme squeezes Alan’s leg three times. 

“Perfect, baby boy.” Alan leans over and kisses him on the forehead. “Now, don’t make too much noise, daddy has to work.” With that, he pushes Graeme’s head gently down toward his soft cock. 

When they’d sat down again to discuss more scenes, cock warming had once again stood out for Graeme, because it seemed like something Alan could get into, too. 

It also seemed like a good place to start, because it’s also Alan’s first time with it. It feels a little more balanced, not that Graeme doesn’t relish feeling diminutive to Alan, either. 

Spreading Alan’s knees a little farther apart, Graeme kneels in between and suckles at the end of Alan’s cock. Soft like this, he’s able to fit most of it in his mouth without blocking his airway, so he settles in, finds a comfortable position, and lets Alan’s cock fill him. 

For his part, Alan is as good as his word, or so Graeme assumes. He can’t actually see what Alan is typing on his laptop, but he is clacking away, looking intent. 

Technically, it’s a work day for Alan, or it should be, but when the opening popped up in Graeme’s schedule, Alan called in, too, and they’d spent this morning snuggled up together in bed with the cats for the first time in days. Graeme hopes to spend a good portion of the afternoon exactly like this, serving Alan, making him happy. 

He fills all of Graeme’s senses until the only thing he breathes, smells, tastes, feels, hears is Alan, only Alan. Alan, whose free hand is massaging through his curls lightly. Alan, who tells Graeme he’s a good boy every once and awhile. Alan, who’s slowly and steadily growing harder, lengthening on Graeme’s tongue. It’s impossible not to sink in, deep and fast, as Alan dominates everything, pushes out every last vestige of worry and anxiety and exhaustion. 

His own cock is stiff, pressing against the pajamas he had refused to change out of earlier, once they’d set their plans for the day. He knows the soft fabric is tenting out, but he pushes away his own need and desire, focusing on Alan’s, instead. 

Aches register every now and then: his knees hurt a little, despite the pillow, and his feet have fallen asleep. His jaw is a little tight, and he works it, loosening it, and in the process, makes Alan groan above him. 

“Mmmm, baby boy, you’re so good at getting me hard.” His thumb traces down Graeme’s cheek, where it massages at his aching jaw muscles. “Now show me what you can really do,” he murmurs, dark and heavy in his ear. 

With a vibrating moan, Graeme surges forward, bobbing his head, making suction with his lips as he slides back. Alan’s dick is obscenely wet with his own spit, with precum, shiny and slick. There’s no resistance as Graeme bobs back down, working Alan back farther. He repeats the motion, lost in trying to reach his goal, until Alan’s all the way in, and Graeme’s nose is buried in his pubes. Graeme groans, clinging to Alan’s legs and holding his cock there, deep in his throat, until his eyes start to water. He pulls back, gasps air around Alan’s cock, lets himself get some oxygen, and then goes in again, trusting Alan not to call it as long as he doesn’t give the signal. He wants the burn, he craves it, the pain for Alan’s pleasure. He wants to give it, to sacrifice a little breath at the shrine of Alan’s dick. 

His own cock head brushes against the couch, and even through the pajama bottoms, it’s enough to set him off, painting the inside of his pants. He moans, squeezing, bobbing. He barely registers Alan’s gasped, “Baby, did you— oh, shit—”

Alan pours down his throat, softening again, and Graeme just rests his head on Alan’s thigh, taking deep breaths and zoning the fuck out. 

 

When he comes to, he’s wrapped in a blanket on Alan’s lap. His soiled pajama bottoms have been stripped away, and he’s naked down there, but that’s probably what the blanket is for. Alan probably didn’t want to have to leave him when he was that deep under. 

He clings to Alan’s shirt and snuggles in closer. “Jesus,” he mumbles, and his voice is gravelly. 

“Here, sweetie, I made you some honey tea.” Alan pushes a mug toward him, and Graeme drinks from it, slowly and gratefully. 

“How long—” He stops to cough. “How long was I out?” His voice still sounds like shit. Instead of feeling bad, though, he feels a certain sense of pride. He grins, and lays his head back down on Alan’s chest after another sip. He knows he did good work; he can feel it in his bones. 

“Including or not including the best blow job of my life?”

Graeme laughs as much as his throat will let him. “Tell me both.” 

“Okay, well, you were on my dick for a good hour, maybe more? You were so sweet, baby, and so happy, I hated to disturb you. You looked totally zenned out. After my wonderful, intense, amazing orgasm, one I will be nursing for quite awhile, I’m sure, because you’ve blown my mind clear out of my dick—”

“Alan,” Graeme says with another small laugh. 

“Okay, anyway. You’ve been zoning out in subspace for another twenty or so, I’d say. Enough time for me to make tea and clean you up a bit.” 

Graeme dutifully takes another sip of tea. “That was fucking phenomenal.” 

“You’re telling me!” Alan grins, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You, uh, really went after it. And I mean that in the best way possible. It was so hot to watch, baby. Watch you submit yourself to me, but with the intent to destroy. Your mouth could be weaponized. Your blow jobs could be used to secure world peace. You—”

“Stop it.” Graeme giggles, blushing, pleased so deep within himself he can’t really find the words for it. 

“I won’t,” Alan replies, continuing to whisper in Graeme’s ear about how amazing he is. 

 

The glow from that particular scene doesn’t leave Graeme for two days. Still, Alan’s there, preventing the crash, or cushioning it anyway, so that Graeme barely feels it. He’s moody for a little bit of work, calls Alan before he can spiral about it, and smooths out again almost immediately. 

It’s been almost six weeks since the accident, since he started his anti-anxiety meds again. His ribs are almost healed, his hip barely registers an ache anymore, and he’s almost ready to start counting the days between spirals again. And on top of that, he’s got a pretty fucking spectacular boyfriend. 

It’s hard to stop Alan’s words, the ones he’d used to describe subspace once, from niggling and nagging at the back of his mind, because his mind always finds a way to fuck it up. 

_ “What goes up must, sweetie.” _

So when’s he going to come down?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The way Graeme describes how he smells after work is largely based on my own experience in fast food. Ugh!


	22. Quitting - Graeme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graeme makes an unexpected, hasty life decision.

_The thing about waiting for your life to inevitably fall apart is that it’s never over, is it? One little piece falls out, and you adjust, but then another goes, so you adjust again, and so on._

_Looking back, Graeme thought losing his job would be the worst of it._

 

Graeme sighs a little too audibly taking a special order, and the customer asks to speak to Jeremy. Graeme's anxiety tries to spiral, hits the block of his meds, and just sets his brain into a useless whirl, it seems like.

After he’s taken care of it, Jeremy drags Graeme back to the break room and doesn’t hold back. “Ever since your accident you’ve come back to work with this holier-than-thou, 'I’m better than anyone else' attitude. Just because you got yourself a _sugar daddy_ doesn’t mean we all have to cater to your every whim or put up with your shit, Graeme-cracker. Buck the fuck up and get your head back in the game, or you’re fired.”

Graeme stiffens, his spine going straight as a rod. He can feel his brain want to crash through the barrier of his meds, but it's held back again, whirling, waiting for its moment. Maybe it’s the meds that stops the spiral. Maybe it’s Alan, telling him he’s worthy. Maybe it’s his time as Baby Boy, who he’s built up in his head as this fearless sub who submits only to his Daddy and no one else.

He _sighed._ That’s _it._ And that’s _bullshit._ Customers are _bullshit._ Jeremy is _bullshit,_ the whole thing is just fucking bull—

“I quit.”

Calmly, he lifts his apron off and tosses it to the break room table, then pulls his uniform shirt off, too. He’s left in a thin white undershirt. Without another word, he turns on his heel and walks out, forgetting his favorite black hoodie in his locker.

Somewhere between the break room door and the front entrance to the Burger Joint, he loses the spur of confidence the adrenaline had given him and pretty much has a complete meltdown. Whatever held the spiral back before has been battered into oblivion, given free rein in his brain. He manages to make it out into the cool rain, and then he wanders. And wanders. And wanders, until he’s at the piers, his feet hurting vaguely. And then he sits down, in the rain, and watches the waves crash against the pier, and the seagulls beg for food from tourists, and the ferry boats drive in and out. He leans his head against the railing on the side of the pier, and tries to bring himself out of the spiral, but it’s deep, and cutting.

It goes something like: _Now I have no job. I’m all in. I have to rely on Alan, for now, and if things with Alan go south, not only am I going to be heartbroken, but I’m going to have to rebuild my life from the ground up. And I won’t be getting any references from the Burger Joint, so I’m going to have to completely start over. Make some new deals. Figure everything out from the beginning again. I’m back to square one._ _Negative one.  
_

Giving everything over to Alan seems just about as scary as slipping into the Sound right now and letting the swirling, foamy water engulf him.

It’s that intrusive thought that jerks him back to life. He’s a survivor, a fighter, and he always will be. He hasn’t made it this far to _ever_ give up. Back in high school, that meant figuring out how to live with his mother’s serial boyfriends. After graduation, it meant figuring out how to keep his brain working. Now, it means wrangling back some of the whatever-the-fuck that was back at the Burger Joint, picking himself up, and looking for a new job. If that means relying on Alan for a little bit, why not? Alan had made it clear that he wanted to help.

And Graeme is going to ask for help _._

With fingers numb from cold, he pulls out his phone and hits Alan’s name.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Alan answers, warmth in his voice seeming to take away some of the chill. “How are you doing?”

Graeme presses his fingers to his eyes to try and keep the sob out of his voice. When he speaks, though, it’s clear he’s not okay. “Alan, I quit my job, and I kind of freaked out— I mean, spiraled — and ended up at the piers.”

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“Yeah, no, I’m fine, I’m just cold, and wet. Um.” It finally registers that he’s still in his undershirt, that he doesn’t have his hoodie. “Shit, I forgot my hoodie at work, I loved—”

“You walked all the way from the Burger Joint to the waterfront without your hoodie?” There’s an urgency in Alan’s voice, worry that Graeme put there, and now Graeme’s cheeks heat with shame.

“Sorry, I—”

“Ping me with your location, Graeme. Hendrick and I are coming to get you.”

He follows Alan's command. Part of Graeme knows he should get up, meet them on the closest street, but the other, more chaotic part of his brain just keeps watching the swirling water, getting lost in it. The spiral is slowly calming, though the determination hasn’t returned, and now he’s just tired. Minutes pass, probably.

A coat, warm from Alan’s body, comes down over his shoulders, and he shudders. “Sweetie, you’re practically blue,” Alan murmurs, pulling him up to his feet and dragging him into an embrace. “Come on. I’ve got you.”

The car is blessedly warm, probably too hot for both Alan and Hendrick, who looks concerned as Alan bundles him into the car and onto his lap. Before Alan or Graeme can ask, Graeme’s favorite rain sounds album pumps out of the car’s speakers. “Thanks, Hen.”

“No problem, Alan. Home?”

“Yeah. He’s fine. Just cold and shaken.”

Graeme closes his eyes and rests against Alan’s chest, letting the story spill out. “I should be able to take it better. I should be able to let it wash off my back,” he mutters, feeling tears well up again.

“Listen, Graeme, the job just wasn’t the right fit, okay? Nobody’s fault.”

“Well, I’ve always said people should have to work in the service industry for a year after graduating high school, just so they treat people like Graeme better,” Hendrick adds from the front seat, and it makes Graeme laugh a little.

“Thanks, Hendrick.”

“No problem, marshmallow.”

“Marshmallow?”

“Graeme-graham cracker-marshmallow. Unless you prefer chocolate?” Hendrick laughs, a full, rich sound, as Alan’s chest vibrates with his chuckle.

“Oh hey, or just S’mores.”

“None of these are good nicknames,” Graeme protests.

“I don’t know, I think I can work with that last one.” Alan clears his throat. “Hey, get over here and give me s’more kisses.”

“That’s…terrible. You’re both terrible.”

“I know,” Hendrick croons. “But you put up with us, for some reason.”

“For some reason.” The banter makes him smile, though, for what feels like the first time in hours, and the small smile stays there for the rest of the trip home.

 

In the apartment, Alan forces hot tea on him, then showers with him, helping him come down from the spiral. He tucks Graeme into his side on the couch as he continues his work on his laptop, reaching up to stroke through Graeme’s hair every once and awhile. For his part, Graeme dozes off and on, trying not to get stuck back in the worry again.

Eventually, Alan pushes his laptop away and presses a kiss to Graeme’s hair.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do, now. I mean, I have to start looking for a new job, obviously, but I'm starting over from scratch, I don't know how I'm going to make it work...”

“You don’t have to make a decision tonight. You have a little while to think, go over pros and cons. Maybe do some more research. I’ve got your back until then.”

The fear he’d felt before threatens to come up and choke him again, until he has to spill it out in a short muffled scream. “I’m worried about being 100 percent dependent on you,” he says urgently, willing Alan to understand. “That’s— _That's_ the problem! I’m not supposed to be that dependent on _anyone._ How could I let this happen? Growing up I— I learned that the hard way. You have to provide for yourself, because no one else is going to do it for you. You have to make it work, however you can, doing whatever you can to survive. Putting all your eggs in one basket is too dangerous. What if the basket falls and all the eggs break? What if I’m completely dependent on you, and you drop dead? Or you get tired of me? What will _I_ do?”

Alan’s eyes go wide, and his lips purse. When he speaks, his brow is furrowed. “I— I honestly didn’t think of it that way, like, at all.” He squeezes Graeme closer. “No wonder you’re worried. I’d be scared shitless.”

For some reason, just Alan knowing, and kind of understanding, at least just a little, calms Graeme like nothing else. “I just need you to know that,” he says quietly.

“Thank you for telling me.” He pulls Graeme up into a slow, sweet kiss. “I’ll— I’m going to try my best to make you feel stable, without— without being your foundation, I guess.”

Graeme looks down, resting his forehead against Alan’s. “That’s— that’s a lot of work.”

“You’re worth it, sweetheart.”

“Why?”

Alan takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly. “You don’t know how happy you’ve made me, Graeme. I— I was so _lonely._ You said once you’re touch-starved? I’m— I don’t know the right wording. People starved? And I feel like everything in my life was set up to keep me feeling that way. The weekly visits to my sister, to play with kids I’ll never get to have. Cuddling with a sub in the aftercare room, and going home alone at night and falling asleep with no one to wrap my arms around. And then you fell into my life—”

“To be fair, I was on the ground because you hit me with a car,” Graeme points out, his voice scratchy with emotion.

Alan laughs, and cups his cheeks, kissing him. “I hit you with a car, you beautiful human being, and everything felt like it clicked into place.”

Graeme brushes over his lips, scratching a little at his brown-silver beard. “Then I’m going to do my best to make sure you never feel lonely again, okay?”

 

After his afternoon spent on the pier, Graeme feels closer than ever with Alan, even though none of his problems feel solved. He also, unfortunately, ends up with one of the worst colds he’s ever had in his life. It’s like his body is like “hey, you know what, now that you’re unemployed, you know what you really have time for? All those viruses you fought through the last two years because you couldn’t afford to take a sick day.”

The first day he gets really sick, he doesn’t want to call Alan, because he knows he has a huge pitch meeting that he’s been preparing for for months, since before he even met Graeme. So he contacts the one other person in his phone he trusts: Hendrick. And Hendrick ends up getting his wife involved, or at least, her chicken soup, because he refuses to let Graeme eat a can of the generic stuff from the store.

Hendrick arrives with tissues, and Dayquil, and a week supply of ‘Cecilia’s good stuff’ as he calls it. Graeme hums over his first bowl, though he doesn’t have much of an appetite. It’s everything he’s ever wanted in a bowl of chicken soup. Like he can feel the love and care cooked in to every bite.

“I’ll pass your compliments on. You and Alan should come by sometime so you can meet my lady. She’s got that knack that Alan says you have, of being able to turn anything into a meal.”

Graeme shrugs tiredly, pulling a blanket more tightly around his shoulders. “When you have to make do, you make do.”

“Me, I resorted to those ten cent ramen packets.”

“What, the ones where the entire flavor profile is ‘salt’?” Graeme wrinkles his nose.

“Such a foodie.”

“I’m not!”

Hendrick just raises a brow.

“There are a million things I’ve never tried before,” Graeme protests. “Pate, and caviar, and, I don’t know… gold flaked ice cream, or whatever.”

“Alan gave me and Cecilia a can of caviar for Christmas one year. I’m pretty sure he regifted it from someone else. I told him to just give me cash next time.”

Graeme laughs, then coughs until his throat is clear again, Hendrick helpfully/unhelpfully thumping his back. “I’d never fit in in the foodie world.”

Hendrick arches his brow. “Alan said it might be a possibility, that you might want training.”

Graeme pushes away his empty bowl and snuggles his blanket around his shoulders better. He squirms at Hendrick’s continued arched brow. “I told him that I didn’t have the money, though.”

“Alan has a lot of money, and a sweet spot for a certain young man.”

Graeme blushes, then hides his face by pretending to need to blow his nose. “I can’t just take Alan’s money to go to college.”

“Why not? What if you set up something like a private loan, except it’d be way better, because Alan wouldn’t charge you a billion percent interest?”

“Because I’d fail!” Graeme cries, then lets his mouth fall open, shocked at the admission forced out of him. It sounds...true? Maybe? “Because I’m not college material. No one in my family has gone. I barely made it through high school. Why the fuck would anyone think I could do it?”

“Has Alan ever told you what I did before I retired and started driving for rich folks?”

“Uh— no.”

Hendrick smiles, just a little, as he nudges the soup toward Graeme again. “I didn’t go to college, that’s for sure. My beautiful Ceci did, though.” He sits up a little straighter, pride evident in his stature. “She went all the way through grad school at U-Dub, so she could be a university professor, and that’s what she did up until she retired a couple of years ago. Now she writes books.”

“But what did you do?”

Hendrick grins broadly. “I worked my ass off at Boeing, helping her pay for it. And then, helping our kids go. My Ceci, her parents never went to college, either, and look where she ended up. One, because of her own damn brilliance, and two, because she had backup.” He jerks a thumb at himself and smiles. “You’re brilliant, _and_ you have backup, too.”

Graeme lets that sink in as he takes another bite of soup to please Hendrick. “I, um. I need to think about that.”

“That’s okay, too. Here, while you do, let an old man show off his talented and beautiful children and grandchildren.” He pulls out his phone, beginning to flick through photos as Graeme watches, grinning.

Eventually, Graeme’s own phone buzzes, and he picks it up.

 **Alan:** How are you feeling sweetie?

Hendrick taps the counter lightly to get his attention. “Now that’s a nice smile. Tell Alan I said hi.”

Graeme blushes. “You approve of this, of us?”

“I approve of anything that makes Alan as happy as you’ve made him. ‘Sides, what am I going to complain about? My Ceci robbed the cradle too, marrying me. I’m _seven_ years younger than her,” he says, waggling his eyebrows. “Doesn’t make too much a difference now that we’re both old and wrinkly and grey.” He stands, grabbing his jacket. “Feel better, S’mores.”

“Thanks, Hendrick,” Graeme calls, typing out a message on his phone.

 **Graeme:** Shitty, through no fault of Hendrick’s. How’d the presentation go?

 **Alan:** Probably less shitty than you feel? Sorry, baby. Gotta head back now for negotiation crap, I just wanted to check in. Let me know if you need anything

 **Graeme:** <3

 **Alan:** <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be honest, guys. My mental health has been in the gutter lately. I've got way too much piled on my plate for summer, which is normally downtime. Like, thousands of pages of poli-sci reading 'too much'. 
> 
> So I guess I'm not only updating faster because I'd like to get it out before grad school, but also because this universe is kind of where I want to live right now.


	23. Idle - Alan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feeling better, Graeme's feeling he needs to do more.

Alan’s not terribly surprised when he wakes a few days later, groggily, to find his bed — his arms — empty, though he is disappointed. He’s not a morning person, not really, preferring to stay in the warmth of the bed with his cats — and hopefully, his boyfriend — until the last possible moment. He’d learned, several weeks ago now, that Graeme — well. Graeme likes to vacate the bed as quickly as possible, as if he hates staying in between the sheets, awake, for one more moment. Considering the way his brain attacks him if he stays still for even a second, Alan supposes it makes sense. 

But understanding it doesn’t mean it doesn’t disappoint Alan, just a little. Still, he brushes it aside and performs his morning ritual with Threepio that has the cat drooling all over him. Artoo looks like she’s about to join in, when a loud bang comes from the kitchen area, and she bolts. 

Graeme's cold is pretty much completely gone now, enough that he started letting Alan kiss him on the lips again last night, much to Alan's joy. 

“C’mon, Threep, let’s go see what Graeme is up to.” He cuddles the cat — who’s still mid-drool-fest — up against his chest as he walks out of the bedroom. As he gets closer to the kitchen, he hears the tinny sound of a phone playing a podcast, and he deliberately makes his feet fall harder so as not to scare his boyfriend. 

Graeme is stirring something in a pan on the stovetop, but when he hears Alan, he turns, a smile already on his face. It’s strange, the smile: it doesn’t quite reach his eyes like the more genuine ones do. Alan can tell he’s been fighting his demons already this morning, the way the anxiety is already in Graeme’s eyes, and something hurts inside him. He knows that what Graeme's dealing with, he'll be dealing with for the long haul, and Alan's prepared to deal with it, too. He just wishes Graeme could get a little bit of a break, sometime. 

“Good morning,” he offers instead, setting Threepio on the floor. He slides a hand over Graeme’s back tentatively, but when Graeme’s smile deepens a little, looks a little more real, he steps in, letting his thumb slide under the band of Graeme’s pajama pants, rubbing at the warm skin with its small, fine hairs there. Graeme seems to melt under his ministrations, coming up on tiptoes to brush a kiss over his lips. 

“Morning.” He gives Alan another little smile, before turning back to whatever he’s cooking. Alan doesn’t fail to notice, however, the way Graeme’s body leans on his, just a little. 

“What’cha cooking?”

“Oh, just an egg scramble thing,” Graeme says with a nervous jerk of his shoulders, pushing eggs  and veggies and sausage around the pan. “Figured it was the least I could do.” 

Alan’s lips purse together. “Least you could do?”

Graeme waves the hand that isn’t holding the pan steady in an anxious, flapping gesture. “I mean, since I don’t have a job, now. And basically I’m a lazy bum leeching off of you.”

He lifts the pan away from the burner, and dishes the eggs up onto two plates, sprinkling some cheddar cheese over them. After a second’s pause, he looks back up at Alan, that false brightness on his face again. “Sorry, that’s probably not a topic you want to wake up to! How did you sleep?” He pushes one of the plates at Alan, who takes it automatically. 

“Graeme…” 

“It was almost a little too hot last night, huh? Do you ever sleep with the balcony door open in there, or do the cats try to escape? I’d hate to lose either one of them.” Graeme sits at the island, tucking ‘enthusiastically’ into his food. 

Carefully, Alan sits down beside him, trying a bite of the eggs, because they smell fucking fantastic. And so they taste — he lets out an involuntary little hum that has Graeme looking over at him. “S’good.” 

Graeme’s smile is a little more genuine, again. 

For all of how Graeme’s issues are complicated, and require professional help to sort out, there are some parts of Graeme that are clear as a bell to Alan. Like how much he preens under what he sees as real praise. So, Alan engages him in a conversation about the eggs, how he prepared him, how he learned to do it, in hopes of taking Graeme's mind off of whatever is bothering him. 

When Graeme has relaxed a little more, and their breakfast almost done, Alan probes again. “Can we talk about what you said, earlier?”

It’s his great disappointment to see Graeme fold into himself again, his fork halfheartedly pushing his last bite around the plate. 

“Is there a way we can make you feel less like you’re, um, leeching off of me?” Alan tries.   


More fork pushing. “I’m going to get another job.” Graeme sounds obstinate, defensive.   


“Okay,” Alan replies easily, still trying his best to navigate whatever this is. “You could look for one up here, by our place.” 

Graeme nods. “I don’t know what I’ll be able to get without being able to put either the Quix-Stop or the Burger Joint on there."

Alan's in the middle of thinking, _"There it is..."_ when he catches Graeme's next bit:

"It’s like starting over fresh as a sixteen year old.” 

Alan chews a bit slowly, priding himself in the casual way he says, “Have you been working since you were sixteen?”

Graeme’s eyes slide away, the sure sign he’s trying to figure out how truthful he should be with Alan, like he’s never sure exactly how Alan will take it. Alan knows — hates himself a little that he does know — that, for all that he’s 10 years older than Graeme, he’s naive about the experiences Graeme has had. What horrifies him is just another Tuesday for Graeme, sometimes. 

“Yeah, around there.” And with that, Alan is fairly sure he means he started a lot younger, with stuff that probably can’t be listed on a resume. “I’m a good worker,” he says with not a little pride, which puts a small smile on Alan’s face. 

“Yeah, you are. You’re extremely hard-working, and compassionate, and you care about doing a good job.” He leans over, cupping Graeme’s chin and bringing him in for a short kiss. When he pulls back again, Graeme’s cheeks are a delicious shade of pink. God, he could live a thousand years and never get tired of Graeme’s praise kink. "You'll be able to get your foot in the door somewhere, even quitting the Burger Joint. Or, you know, you could wait a bit on the job hunt."   


"Why would I wait?"

“I’m going to hazard a guess that you’ve never had a vacation.” 

Graeme wrinkles his nose, pulling away a little, and snorts. 

“Yeah, thought so.” Alan chases him, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “You could take one, now.” 

“I already basically had a vacation when I was recovering from the accident.” 

“Sitting around in pain all day is  _ not _ a vacation. And neither-” Alan cuts in when Graeme opens his mouth, "is sitting on the couch miserable all day because you have a virus." 

Graeme is stubbornly silent at that. 

“I just— you don’t have to wake up and cook for me, as, like, some type of pay back, or something. You’re not my kept man, you’re not a housewife. I don’t want you to feel obligated by your anxiety to do this, as wonderful as it tastes.” He presses their lips together again. “I would love, however, to see you really enjoy yourself on vacation. Like, don’t even try to start figuring out your next step, yet. I’ve got you.”

“And if you—”

“If something happens to me, Sam knows to take care of you. I dealt with that the day after you pointed it out. It’s in writing, signed with a witness, that if I were to keel up and die or something, you’ll be taken care of for as long as you need it. There are more specific terms than that, of course, all sorts of numbers and so forth. But you’ll be set up.” 

Graeme gapes at him, looking like he’s having trouble catching a breath. “Al—” 

Alan rubs his hand over Graeme’s back soothingly. “Just breathe, sweetie, it’s okay.” 

“You— after I  _ yelled _ at you— you did that? For me?” Graeme wipes furiously at his eyes, but the move doesn’t stop the tears from spilling over his cheeks. 

“Oh, baby, come here,” Alan murmurs, pulling Graeme into his lap. Then, making a decision, he walks them over to the couch where they can  _ really _ cuddle. 

“Did Sam call you ten kinds of idiot for that?” Graeme says from the crook of Alan’s neck. 

Alan grins. “Only for a little bit. You’ve won her over too, sweetie, and my parents. They still think the age difference is a little crazy, but you’ve done a pretty good job convincing them you’re not some gold digger who’s going to murder me in my sleep for all of my riches.” 

Graeme chokes out a crying-laugh against his skin. “Mike and Linda would trust someone selling them snake oil.”

“Hey, now, that’s not true, which I suppose you’d only know if you’d seen them around some of my past boyfriends. Which I’ll let you ask Sam about, because I’d rather not talk about my past mistakes.” He kisses Graeme a little more thoroughly this time. “Everyone, including me, has seen how genuine you are. You’re the real deal, sweetheart. I’m more than willing to invest in you.” 

Graeme lifts, moves himself into a straddle so that he can more easily find Alan’s lips. They sit like that for a while, lazily making out, Graeme’s arms circling his neck. 

“Take a vacation with me this weekend,” Alan whispers against his lips. “Let yourself take a break.” 

Chewing on his bottom lip in a way that makes Alan want to dive in again, Graeme nods. “Okay,” he whispers back. 

“When we come back, worry about your next step, or better yet, use the free time to really plan your next step out. Until then, take a mental break.” 

“Okay.” 

Pleased, Alan runs his hands down Graeme’s back and settles them on his ass, squeezing. “Play with me.” He nips at Graeme’s ear. “I want to take you away this weekend and put you in subspace so you have nothing to worry about, make you come a hundred times until you’re spent and boneless in my arms. I want to feel your body at its most relaxed.” 

Graeme shivers.  _ “Alan.” _ He leans in and squeezes Alan tighter. “Yes, yes, please.” 

“If I rearrange stuff, and,” he laughs for a second, “get off this coach and stop making out with my boyfriend and actually go to work, we could take off Thursday afternoon, come back Monday night.” 

“Where are we going? I don’t have a passport…”

Alan kisses Graeme’s nose, because it’s there, looking cute. “No worries. We aren’t leaving the country, yet. Although I definitely want to fly you to...Phuket. I don’t know why that’s the first thing that came to mind— anyway, no, we’re not even going to leave the state.” He smiles, thinking already of the possibilities.  _ The nice B&B in Bellingham? Oo, or the place over in Friday Harbor...I wonder if Graeme has ever taken a ferry ride... _

“I should let you go, then, so you can go work.” Graeme starts pushing himself back, but Alan follows, capturing him one last time for a kiss. 

“Is that okay? You know you can call me, or contact Clarissa, if you can’t handle the free time. It’s okay, after so long, to not be able to take a little down time and relax. Your brain isn’t used to it.” 

Graeme smiles, just a little. “That sounds suspiciously like advice you’ve been given, before.” 

Alan blushes, sheepish. “Guilty. The last time I went on vacation was… seven years ago? And, uh. It would be the reason why my boyfriend at the time and I broke up.” 

“Uh oh.” Graeme frowns, rubbing a thumb over one of his hot cheeks. 

“Turns out, boyfriends don’t like it when you fly them to Fiji and then spend all day on the hotel wifi working. Lesson learned.” 

“So what you’re saying is, I make sure  _ you _ actually take a break, and you make sure I’m actually taking a break?”

Alan finds Graeme’s hand on his hip and threads their fingers together. “Yeah, that sounds like a good deal.” 

“Deal.” Graeme leans in to seal it with a kiss, then stands, pulling Alan to his feet in a way that never fails to make Alan marvel. Graeme is tiny, compared to him, but he knows how to use his body as leverage, and just manages to make Alan feel a little small, sometimes, which is amazing in its own right. 

Graeme sends him with a little smack on his ass back toward the bedroom, insisting that he can clean up the kitchen while Alan gets ready for work. Alan is just as insistent that Graeme join him in the shower, because “It’s scary in there, Graeme, come protect me.” 

Graeme laughs, and lets himself be pulled along under mock protest. In the shower, though, he’s the one that presses Alan to the tiles, running hands slippery with soap over his body, letting his obviously arousal press against Alan’s skin. 

“Can I help you take care of that, baby?” 

“Mmm, yes, Alan,  _ please—” _

He wraps one arm around Graeme, pulling him closer, and snakes the other between them to slide over Graeme’s cock. The water is streaming over them as Graeme’s mouth closes over his. Alan begins to stroke, ever so slowly at first, feeling Graeme chase his hand with his hips, needing something to fuck. 

Alan is happy to be the thing Graeme wants to fuck, he realizes. In a way that he probably needs to spend some time analyzing later, because normally any thought of it would bring back bad memories of his ex and their extremely unimaginative, "you're the ace so you're the bottom, take it" sex. He brushes it aside for now and focuses back on Graeme.  


“That’s it, baby doll,” he whispers in Graeme’s ear, because he will never be able to stop pet-naming the fuck out of Graeme Reid Webster. “You’re so good at letting yourself go, taking your pleasure.” 

Graeme’s fingers grip into the skin of his shoulder as he wraps a leg around Alan’s and tries to find the best angle, chanting Alan’s name, breath hot on his skin. Alan lets him press him against the tiles, lets him seek his orgasm, lets him _take_ it, in a way that's better than any other kind of 'take it' he's ever experienced. 

It’s hot, incredibly so, to see Graeme go mindless with it, to see him reduced to rutting against Alan. And even though Graeme’s in charge of the motions, it’s still clear who’s really in charge, as Graeme looks up at Alan and  _ whimpers. _

“There you go, sweetie, come for me—”

Alan doesn’t even finish his command before Graeme’s cum shoots over his hand, striping his stomach, and Graeme positively melts in his arms. 

“Oh, fuck, Alan,” Graeme slurs, pressing open mouthed kisses to Alan’s neck. “That felt so good.” 

“Welcome to your vacation,” Alan says with a grin, and Graeme laughs.


	24. Planning Vacation - Graeme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys make plans for vacation. Sexy plans. ^.^

Letting himself relax is...not really a thing Graeme has ever had the luxury to do. So, that first day, after the amazing shower hand job and sending Alan off to work, he forgives himself for not following Alan’s advice at all. 

He feels himself go pink, though, when Alan comes home that night — late, catching up from their late morning, oops — and the entire apartment has been cleaned from top to bottom, and there are three different kinds of cookies on the counter for Alan to take to his coworkers tomorrow. 

“Graeme—” 

Graeme hops off the treadmill — when he’d run out of things to do in the house, and even knitting was proving too relaxing, he’d jumped up on here for a run — and wrings his hands. “I know. I know, okay? I just—” 

Alan pulls him close, ignoring the sweat from his workout and pressing a kiss of greeting on his lips. “I’m not the relaxation police, sweetie.”

“I know.” He looks at the floor, avoiding Alan’s eyes. “You just looked a little disappointed in me, that’s all.” 

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it at all. I’m never disappointed in you.” He brushes some of Graeme’s sweaty bangs off his forehead, and kisses him there. “I’m sorry,” he says again, more quietly. 

Graeme blushes. “It’s okay.” 

“And hey, tomorrow, you can try again. One day at a time.” 

“Did you eat at work?”

This time, Alan looks embarrassed. “I had a protein shake…”

“I wasn’t sure when to expect you, so there’s some split pea soup in the fridge that you can warm up, if you want.” Graeme does his best not to look disappointed in Alan, either. Besides, it’s easy to smile when Alan’s eyes light up. 

“Is that what smells like bacon?”

Graeme laughs. “Yes. Come on, mister.” He pulls him to the kitchen island and forces him to sit down, happy to buzz around the kitchen, getting the soup warmed for his boyfriend. 

“Oh, I have news, re: vacation.” 

“Yeah?”

“It’s good and bad news?”

“Oh. Um. Bad news first, I guess?”

“It’s easier to just say it all at once, I think,” Alan says. “We get to go a day earlier than expected, that’s part of why I stayed so late tonight. But, the reason we get to is because I agreed to attend a charity event down in Port Orchard. I was already looking at places to stay, and this invite popped up, and it seemed kind of serendipitous.”

“That’s fine, Alan,” Graeme says with a frown, trying to figure out the catch. 

“I need a date for the event.”

Graeme pauses in the middle of typing in the time on the microwave. “Alan, I’m— I’m not fancy… I don’t even have a suit… Everyone’s going to wonder why the fuck  _ I’m _ there with you.”

He hears Alan stand and walk over to him. Relishes the moment when Alan’s arms slip around his waist and hug him from behind. “The world already knows about us,” he whispers in Graeme’s ear. “I don’t want to hide you. I want you there, by my side.”

Graeme’s mind is already kicking into overdrive at the idea of attending a fancy event with Alan and all the ways he’s going to fuck it up. He goes silent, willing the spiral to stop, to go away, to leave him alone. Eventually, he realizes that his eyes are squeezed shut against it, his fists clenched, but Alan is still hugging him. Alan is still here.

“What if I make a fool of myself, reaching for the wrong spoon, or something?” 

“Who gives a fuck about spoons? It’s a charity event.” 

Graeme opens his mouth, then closes it, unable to think of another argument. 

“Listen, there are certain older elements in Seattle that think of me as ‘new money,’ and they always will, and they’re always going to give me snide, disapproving looks, and unfortunately, those looks are going to spill over onto you, as my date.” Alan presses a kiss into his hair. “I want you to go with me, because I’m going to be as uncomfortable as you are, and I need back up.” 

_ “You’re brilliant, and you have back up,”  _ Graeme remembers Hendrick saying just a few days ago. He jolts at the realization that Alan needs him just as much as he needs Alan.

“Okay,” he says, feeling Alan sag with relief behind him. The movement only strengthens his resolve to get through it for Alan. He can do this, for his boyfriend. “The suit, though?”

Alan kisses his hair again and pulls away. “I’ll text Hendrick right now, he can take you to my tailor tomorrow. It won’t be custom, but I’m sure Frederico can hook you up with something good, regardless.” 

Graeme’s fingers are still shaky with nerves as he hits Start on the microwave, listening to Alan wield the power money gives him to get Graeme a suit. 

 

The next day goes slightly better for Graeme, partially because it's broken up by Hendrick taking him to his appointment with Clarissa. After, he takes Hendrick to lunch; he likes the valet, a lot, actually, enough that if Alan gets tired of Graeme, he's going to be doubly heartbroken to leave them both behind. That's the kind of thinking, of course, that Clarissa tells him isn't conducive, but it sure is an easy trap for his brain to fall into.

That evening, another late night for Alan, the last before they leave for Port Orchard tomorrow, Alan comes home in  _ a mood, _ pulling Graeme into a heady kiss, then pushing him against the front door and sucking on his neck. It sets Graeme’s brain spinning, his breath coming quickly as he slips into surrender easily, clutching at Alan’s shirt. 

“Din— dinner?” Graeme manages to ask, his heart beating wildly. 

Alan growls against his throat. “I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he says. “How I couldn’t wait to get home to you.” 

Something warms deep inside Graeme, and he pulls Alan closer. “Me, too.” 

Alan spends the next few minutes slowly taking Graeme apart, leaving him breathless against the door. When he pulls back, he brings Graeme with him, and in a parody of the night before, sits Graeme down at the counter while he turns to poke his head in the fridge. “Did you eat yet?”

Graeme shakes his head, still a little dazed. “There’s, um. Soup, still. We should eat it or freeze it, since we’re going to be gone. Alan, what the heck was that?” Graeme asks with a laugh. 

Alan’s grin is infectious as he comes back out of the fridge with the soup.  _ “That _ was vacation, baby!” He rocks his hips back and forth to some unheard beat as he dishes out two bowls. Graeme is fairly sure that if anyone looked at his face right now, they’d see hearts where his eyes should be. He doesn’t even bother to school his expression when Alan turns back around, and Alan goes all soft and gooey with it, so, goal achieved. 

He leans over the kitchen island, and Alan matches him, them sharing this gaze at each other as the microwave whirs in the background. “Remember how I told you about the last time I went on vacation?” Alan finally murmurs. 

“Yeah, of course.” 

“I didn’t leave work until about this late, and yeah, things were different back then. I didn’t have Mal, and only about a quarter of the employees I have now. I remember having a panic attack locking up the office for the night, pretty sure the whole thing was going to just...fade away… if I left it for the weekend.” 

“Oh, sweetheart.” 

“Yeah.” He lets out a humorless laugh. “I had stopped seeing a therapist about the Tommy stuff, and why would I need a therapist for anything else? Or so I thought. Stetson leaving was a real wake up call for me. He deserved a way better boyfriend than I was being.” 

“Your boyfriend’s name was  _ Stetson?”  _ Graeme muffles a laugh. “Okay, not the point. The point being, you’re a different guy now, but still, if you feel that anxiety again, let me know, okay? You know I’ll understand.” 

Alan carefully brings their piping hot bowls to the island. “That’s the thing, Graeme. I didn’t feel  _ a whisper _ of that tonight. I mean sure, I stayed late, making sure all my Ts were crossed and so forth, but—” He grins, a happy look in his eyes. “But I’m so looking forward to this, with you. You making sure I relax, me making sure you relax, eating good food, seeing you in your suit, wrecking you multiple, multiple times over the next few days.” 

Graeme nearly spits out soup at the last part, then elbows Alan in the ribs. “Not while I’m eating.” 

Alan just hooks his ankle in the rung of Graeme’s stool and crowds in close as they eat. Because he doesn’t need it for soup, Graeme lets his left hand seek Alan’s, their fingers twisting together as they eat, eyes on each other, small, secretive smiles gracing their lips. 

 

They don’t play in a scene that night, but Alan does, with very little convincing necessary, work Graeme open on his fingers slowly, praising him the whole time, as Graeme clutches at the sheets. 

“Oh, fuck, Alan, fuck, fuck—” 

“I want to taste you,” Alan practically hums in his ear. “Can I taste you?

Graeme moans, sobbing in a deep breath before attempting an answer. Even so, it comes out strangled. “Yes!” 

He’s already on his stomach, naked, his cock hard against the sheets. Now Alan kneels behind him, spreading his thighs open, and massaging over his ass. His cheeks spread, Graeme squirms against Alan’s fingers until Alan holds him down a bit more firmly, the message clear: don’t move. 

Still, he gasps and starts at the first tentative lick at his hole. He’s already loose from the fingering, and Alan’s tongue slips easily inside to fuck him. He groans, his fingers tight in the sheets, and it takes everything he has not to grind his hips back into Alan’s mouth. He wants to, but he also wants to follow Alan’s unspoken directive, and the delicious pulling between the two ideas has him just a little floaty. 

Alan’s making the most amazing sounds down there, all satisfied and growly, and his beard is slowly rubbing Graeme a little raw, the pain and the pleasure mixing all together. Without warning, Alan twists Graeme’s hips, gets him on his back, and swallows him down, two fingers thrusting into his hole and expertly finding his prostate. 

Graeme twitches, strains against coming, but he can’t stop it, the euphoria spreading through his body as he comes down Alan’s throat and bucks against his fingers. 

“Oh, fuck, that’s beautiful,” Alan groans as he climbs back up Graeme’s body and hugs him close. “Did you go under a little, baby?”

Graeme hums, wrapping his arms around his own personal Alan teddy bear and burying his nose in Alan’s chest hair. “Just a little. ‘S’good. I like vacation Alan.” 

He can hear the smile in Alan’s voice as he murmurs against Graeme’s hair. “I like  _ this _ vacation Alan, too.” 

They’re quiet for a while, until Alan rumbles in Graeme’s ear again. “I was, um. Thinking about the event tomorrow night.”

“Yeah?” The subspace feeling has already receded, and now Graeme’s feeling relaxed, acquiescent. 

“I, um. Listen, there’s no delicate way to say this, okay? I’d like to try fucking you.” 

The embarrassed tone of Alan’s voice shocks Graeme into a snort of laughter. Luckily, Alan joins him, not taking offense. Graeme pulls back to meet Alan’s eyes. “I’d like that too, sweetheart. Did you have something particular in mind?”

“I’d like to try a scene, but it would be semi-public,” Alan says hesitantly. 

Graeme arches a brow. “How semi-public?”

“I’d like to finger you open, then have you wear your plug at the event. No one would know, except us, but, I don’t know, I think it would be helpful, keep our mind off things.” 

“It gives me something to center on besides being an embarrassment to you.” Graeme hums in consideration. 

“And if I’m worried about taking care of my beautiful, incandescent, pliant sub while we’re in a scene, I’m not going to be worried about what any old rich snob says about me, or you, or us.” 

Graeme smiles a little at that, reaching up to cup Alan’s face. “It’s like pulling one over on the rich fuddy duddies.”

“And then we go home and I fuck you.” Graeme can tell Alan’s being deliberately blunt this time by the twinkle in his eye. 

Graeme obliges, laughing and pulling Alan into a kiss. “And then you fuck me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm feeling a little better, although totally stressed still. Thank you guys all so much for your well wishes! I wish you all the peace and calm for your mental health as well. <3 <3 <3


	25. Vacation, part 1 - Alan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alan's excited to take Graeme away for a little bit - well, and he's excited for another reason, too.

Alan is stupidly pleased to discover that, in fact, Graeme _hasn’t_ ever been on any of the ferries that go to and from Seattle all day. It’s miraculously not raining, the edges of spring starting to show on the Seattle landscape in the form of daffodils blooming, cherry blossoms just starting to bud, and Seattlites everywhere wearing short shorts and tank tops at the barest hint of sun. With a small jolt, he realizes Graeme’s 21st is coming up in, like, ten days, and he makes a mental note to get his act together and figure out how they’re celebrating.

For now, though, he’s content, if cold, his arms wrapped around Graeme as he watches his boyfriend enjoy the breeze coming off the water. They're sharing body heat, Alan stooping a little to let his cheek rest against Graeme's. They spotted a pod of orcas earlier in the trip, which made Graeme's eyes go wide with almost childlike-wonder, and now they're watching a seagull attempt to steal a burrito from a passenger. Graeme's laughter sounds brighter than anything that’s ever come out of his mouth in the time Alan has known him, a sound of pure delight. Deep satisfaction wells in Alan’s gut.

When it starts to rain, they head inside, and Alan buys them hot chocolate in the lounge. They settle into one side of a booth, both of them feeling possessive and handsy, and people watch as they sip their chocolate. It’s too late in the morning for commuters, so it’s mostly a tourist crowd headed to Bremerton, plus a few people in Navy uniforms obviously headed back from shore leave.

Graeme’s cheeks are pink from the sudden warmth of the cabin after the cold of outside, and he’s glowing as he makes sly remarks about their other passengers, and it’s taking everything in Alan’s power not to push him over the booth's table and fuck him right there.

He’s not used to that kind of thought creeping up on him, and he goes a little quiet as he listens to Graeme speak, thinking it through.

Sex is — still, even with Graeme — not a big deal for Alan. But ever since Graeme admitted that he views it as a reassurance that Alan still wants him, still likes him, it’s been on his mind more. He meant what he said to Graeme, that he really hadn’t thought about it. That it doesn’t occur to him to think about.

Except he wants to, with Graeme. It’s more on his mind than it’s ever been. And he doesn’t know how to explain that to himself, or anyone else. He doesn’t know what that means.

“Alan?”

He snaps back into focus, smiling apologetically. “Sorry.”

Graeme reaches out, and Alan captures his hand automatically. “What’s up?” Alan blushes, and Graeme’s eyes get sly. “Oh-ho?”

Alan is fairly sure he goes even more red, glancing around to make sure their closest neighbors aren’t within hearing distance. “Oh-ho indeed.”

“Thinking about tonight?”

“I— yes. Kind of.”

“Why are you embarrassed?” Graeme asks, quiet and coaxing as his thumb brushes over Alan’s knuckles.

“I was thinking of how much I’d like to fuck you over this table,” he mumbles, sadistically pleased when Graeme’s own cheeks go red.

Graeme coughs, then takes a gulp of hot chocolate. “Um. Okay. Well...uh. I’m going to go with ‘no.’”

It makes Alan laugh, and Graeme grins back at him, and just like that, Alan’s tension begins to diffuse. “Thanks,” he murmurs. “I know that. I was just thinking about it.”

“You sound confused about that." His fingers are still laced through Alan's, and Alan squeezes back, grateful.

“Just—” He pauses, looking out the cabin window toward the approaching shore line. “Just, I know I say I don’t care about labels, or whatever, but I just— I mean. I kind of thought I was settling down into Ace. Except then you come along and it’s like I’m experiencing puberty for the first time.”

Graeme leans into his shoulder, bringing his hand up for a kiss. “Those aren’t _bad_ feelings, are they, sweetheart?”

Alan waits, then finally shakes his head. “No, no. I want this, and I want you, and I want to have sex. I want to be that close to you, be with you.”

“I want that too. Bad enough that your words have me half-hard right now,” he admits with a small laugh. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

Alan shakes his head. “No, I definitely want to. I just— might need some time, afterwards. Tomorrow. To think about what it means. To digest it all.”

“Okay, well. Good thing I’m planning on sticking by your side all day so neither of us drop.”

Alan leans in, letting his forehead rest against Graeme’s. “Thank you, baby.”

“No problem.” Graeme brushes their lips together as an announcement rings through the cabin, asking them to go back to their cars and get ready to exit.

 

Alan is shirtless, trimming his beard over the Air BnB’s sink, when he notices Graeme leaning against the door frame, white dress shirt half buttoned and nothing else on, yet. He’s got an appreciative gleam in his eye, looking at, if Alan is correct, the way Alan’s ass is framed by his dress pants. He shakes his ass, just a little, to see Graeme snap out of it and shake his head, grinning.

“Well if you’re just going to wave that thing around for anyone to touch,” Graeme murmurs as he walks up and runs his hands over Alan’s ass appreciatively. “You’re so thick.” His eyes flick up, meet Alan’s. “Daddy.”

Alan’s heart skips a beat, but he holds onto his sanity. “Graeme, um—”

At the deliberate use of his name, Graeme’s eyes go intent, and he sobers, dropping his flirtaciousness and looking worried. "Um, yeah?"

Alan hurries to reassure him, turning around and leaning against the counter and pulling him in for a hug. "It's okay, you're okay. I'm just..."

"Having second thoughts?"

Alan is quiet for a moment. That's not it, not really. “You’ve never topped, right?”

Graeme shakes his head. “No, just— just blow jobs and hand jobs.”

“Yeah, um. Look, I’ve topped before for a scene, right? For subs I know well, but they’re not— I’m not— it’s not a _relationship_ like this, right?”

“Alan, it’s going to be good. Even if you don’t want to fuck me. It’s okay.” Graeme's face is reassuring, less worried now. "Let's see where the night takes us, hmm?" He sets something on the counter and goes up on tiptoes to circle his arms around Alan's neck and brush a soft kiss over his lips. Graeme grins. "Hey, uh, I guess I'm so used to hearing that, maybe I can be okay at saying it."

Alan lifts Graeme up to the counter, standing between his legs and sinking into a kiss, then another. "You're better than okay at saying it, baby." He rests his forehead against Graeme's. "Thank you."

"I've got you, sweetie." Graeme's fingers play at the short hair at the nape of his neck.

He holds Alan, almost cradling him by wrapping his legs around him and drawing him close.

“I might ask you to fuck me, someday,” Alan whispers, like it's some deep, dark secret.

Graeme hums in his ear, sounding happy, interested. “Well, I think we’ll look at how you’re feeling, and make that decision together. I’m not opposed, although I’d probably be as nervous as you feel right now.”

Considering his ex would have demanded it of him by this stage of their relationship, Graeme's answer is soothing, and he finds himself relaxing a little. "It's your first time. I remember mine. I want it to be good for you, that's all."

"Believe me, nerves are normal." Graeme kisses him softly. "It's going to be wonderful, no matter what we do, because it's with you, honey." He offers Alan a small smile, placing a hand on his heart. "Breathe with me?"

“Yeah.”

They count out a few breaths together, their chests rising as one, their eyes locked.

When they finish, Alan looks down at the counter to see what Graeme had set down earlier: the Njoy plug. He smiles, pushing Graeme's legs wider to reveal his hard cock. “Baby boy isn’t wearing underwear?”

Graeme’s eyes heat at the acknowledgement of the scene starting. “I needed you to prep me, Daddy.”

“Colors?”

“Green, yellow, red.”

“Signals?”

“When we're at the gala, squeeze your hand three times if I need to stop, and we’ll figure out what I need, whether it’s to take the plug out, or go home, or what.”

“Good boy." As Graeme beams at the praise, Alan helps him down off the counter. "Turn around for me, baby boy, and stick that beautiful ass out.”

Graeme grips the edge of the counter, spreading his legs. He peers over his shoulder coquettishly, looking so fucking desirable with his white dress shirt hanging around his thighs, Alan almost calls the whole evening off just to play here all night, instead.

“You do a good job tonight, baby, and Daddy is going to reward you with his cock after.” Maybe the words are a bit much, but getting into the role helps Alan just as it does Graeme, who shivers with anticipation. Something about knowing Graeme is writhing for it, already a little desperate and on edge, and they've barely started, fills Alan with confidence and power.

Graeme presses his ass back further, the shirt slipping up a little. Alan rucks it up, though he adores how it looks hanging around Graeme's pale thighs, placing a firm, steadying hand on the small of Graeme’s back. He works well-lubed finger around Graeme’s rim, listening to the hitch in Graeme's breath, the soft little moans. He doesn’t have to do a huge amount of stretching for the Njoy, but there’s something to be said for watching his baby boy writhe on his finger, searching for satisfaction. Graeme is incredibly responsive, and it never fails to blow Alan away.

“Will you be good for me?”

 _“Yes,”_ Graeme breathes out, just as Alan slips the plug in.

Alan pats his ass, grinning, all worries from before set aside, now. “Well, then. Go finish getting dressed for me, baby boy. I can’t wait to see you all fancy.”

Graeme blushes hard enough for it to spread under the collar of the shirt, pleased at the compliment, already in his headspace. He leans up to peck Alan’s cheek again, and scampers off to the bedroom.

 

Alan caught Graeme staring earlier; now he returns the favor, drinking in the sight of Graeme in a well-tailored suit. Alan immediately makes a note to order one or two more in the style Frederico had emailed him about earlier. With his fresh fade, trim suit, and constant healthy blushy-glow the scene is bringing up on his face, Graeme looks sort of like some young pop star at an awards show, and Alan is a little flabbergasted how, exactly, he gets to have him on his arm.

There’s a short red carpet for the event, just social media promotion for the charity, not like a movie premier or something, and Alan walks it, poses for every picture, with his hand at the small of Graeme’s back. _Mine,_ his body language reads, and if the look in Graeme’s eyes is anything to go by, he knows it, too.

Graeme has yet to show an ounce of nerves at the fancy public outing, instead seeming to be concentrating on not coming in his pants at the metal plug reverberating in his ass with every step, and on being Daddy’s good boy. It’s more than a little nice, watching Graeme’s anxieties slip away in the wake of the scene.

The event is, as expected, boring. He spends most of it guiding Graeme around the room, making idle small talk as he monitors Graeme’s headspace closely.

“I'm going to go to the bathroom, Da— Alan,” Graeme whispers quietly as they walk between groups of people.

Alan inspects Graeme's face for anything that should worry him, then kisses his forehead. It’s not a signal for the scene to end, this time. “Okay, sweetheart. I think I saw them when we entered. I'll miss you. What, laying it on too thick?" he asks when Graeme rolls his eyes. 

"I'll show you 'too thick.'" Graeme discreetly pats Alan's ass as he breaks away.

As he watches Graeme walk away from him — not very quickly, thanks to the plug — he’s approached by a middle aged woman, and he starts to put on his ‘polite company’ mask again.

It turns out, though, that she’s the founder of the charity, and before he knows it, they’re chatting in a corner together, still deep in conversation when Graeme finds them and circles an arm around Alan’s waist.

“You seemed pretty interested,” Graeme murmurs, when the woman has to go away and make announcements.

Alan starts guiding them toward their table, watching Graeme as he sits primly on the seat, the plug surely lodged right against his prostate. “I’ve been thinking about starting a foundation. I don’t have as much as Bill and Melinda Gates, but I could — I could help a little,” he admits.

Graeme looks at him like he hangs the moon, and Alan’s face flushes. “I think that sounds like an amazing idea, Alan.”

A little piece of Alan roars with pride, deep inside himself. He figures he'd do just about anything to make sure he's a person Graeme can think highly of. He presses a kiss to Graeme’s forehead again as they adjust themselves to watch the speeches on the stage and eat their meal.

About midway through, with his plate mostly clean, Alan starts to torture Graeme. Fleetingly, he wishes he'd thought to buy one of those remote vibes for the occasion, but he supposes they can wait for Graeme's birthday to come around.

First, he lets his fingers whisper over the nape of Graeme’s neck. Another sign of possession. He sees Graeme look at him out of the corner of his eye, and he nods, redirecting Graeme’s attention back to the front of the ballroom.

Graeme’s lap is hidden under the tablecloth, and Alan takes advantage of the convenience, letting his hand rest over Graeme’s cock. Graeme doesn’t make a sound, just continues to stare straight ahead, but Alan can almost watch his eyes glaze over with pleasure.

 

Graeme’s under, though not deep, by the time they’re waiting for the valet to bring around Alan’s Tesla. He’s clingy, adorably so, something Alan doesn’t mind one bit. He pulls Graeme into his arms, just another couple waiting for a car, and whispers into Graeme’s ear. **“** I’m proud of you. You did such a good job for me, baby. You were perfect, even when I drove you to distraction. Think you deserve a reward?”

Graeme nods, eagerly, the hopeful look on his face making Alan grin.

“I think so, too.”

In the car, Graeme’s hand discreetly massages Alan’s thigh, near his mostly soft cock. “What about you? Do you get a reward, Daddy? I could get down on my knees and blow you. Get you nice and hard so you can fuck me.”

Alan grips the steering wheel, suddenly happy Port Orchard isn’t that big of a town. He lets Graeme’s fingers slip over his dick, but even keeping to the speed limit — like he wants to get pulled over with Graeme in subspace — they’re back to the nicely refurbished mother-in-law’s house they rented in ten minutes.

Once the car is off, Alan grips the back of Graeme’s neck and pulls them together, crashing into a kiss that has his blood boiling. They’re both panting when they break it off.

With a second of harsh breathing, they burst into action again, hurrying toward the front door and letting themselves in. Alan pushes Graeme against the door, kissing him senseless. “Go get naked and meet me on the bed,” he says breathlessly, knowing the power play of both the time alone and the clothing disparity will sink Graeme deeper.

Eager to please, Graeme gives him a hot look and saunters away.


	26. Vacation part 2, doing the do - Graeme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> >.> <.<

Graeme takes his time, carefully taking off and hanging properly the suit. It's probably the most expensive piece of clothing he’s ever had on his body, and he slides a hand down it reverently.

Alan catches him mid-slide, his own tie loose around his neck and his suit coat elsewhere, and Graeme still has his pants on, his dress shirt hanging out.

Immediately blushing, Graeme pulls his hand away from the suit. "Sorry, Daddy, I, um..." He doesn't have an excuse handy, and looks down at the floor, embarrassed.

Alan's feet slide into his view; somewhere along the way, Alan apparently slid out of his socks and shoes. He caresses a finger under Graeme's chin, and tips it up so their eyes meet. "Did you like your suit, baby boy?"

There isn't a whisper of disappointment on Alan's face, just a little adoring smile, and Graeme reaches out to let his fingers feel the suit again. “Ye—yes, I did, Daddy. Thank you.”

"You were the handsomest person in the room, by far, though I might be biased."

Graeme's face flames, but he grins, unbuttoning his pants. "Now that you're here, Daddy, I could give you a little show?"

Alan nods, stepping back and leaning against the door jam again. "Though I think I changed my mind, seeing you like this. Keep the shirt on, baby boy. I want to fuck you just like how you were in the bathroom earlier.”

Graeme swallows and nods, trying and probably failing to act nonchalant, until he has a realization that Alan _wants_ to see him affected, so why hide it? Alan wants to know exactly how hot he's getting Graeme. With a small secret smile at this self-revelation, his movements go fluid as he slides his pants over his hips. Alan looks almost lazy, leaning against the door, but there's an appreciation in his hooded eyes, and a bare hint of a bulge in his own trousers. With a small smile, Graeme turns to hang the pants, too, giving them a stroke to smooth them out.

“I like dressing you," Alan admits softly, and Graeme turns, making eye contact, surprised.

"I— Um— if you wanted to um, buy me other things to wear, Daddy, I would." He blushes, hoping he doesn't sound needy, and quickly shucks his briefs off to cover it up.

"Have you ever worn a crop top?"

Alan's casual question has Graeme meeting his eyes again. "What?"

Alan walks over slowly, running a hand over Graeme's stomach. "You would look amazing in a crop top, baby boy."

"You— you should get me one. I like, um, wearing your clothing. I like carrying you with me."

"You are so sweet, baby." He pulls Graeme into an embrace, their lips drifting together, nothing urgent except the press of Graeme's cock against his dress shirt. "I like you wearing my stuff, too."

Graeme's mind feels like it's reeling, like he could come just from Alan's deep Dom voice telling him things like how he's possessive and how hot Graeme looks and... Determined, he reaches up for the top button on the dress shirt. “How many do you want me to undo, Daddy?”

Alan tugs on Graeme’s shirt, pulling him closer, slotting their mouths together in a kiss that has Graeme’s senses tingling.

“One,” Alan says, full on Dom voice, as he pops the top button. “Two.” He nips at Graeme’s lips, and Graeme is lost, floating, incandescent.  “Three.” He sucks at Graeme’s exposed chest, over his heart. In the weeks since the accident, Graeme's bruises have faded, but Alan seems determined to cover him in new ones. “Four.” He flicks the last button open, leaving Graeme exposed, his stiff cock no longer hidden in the folds of fabric. “Look at you, pretty boy, so pink for me.” He strokes over Graeme’s cock, making Graeme shudder in his arms.

“Daddy—” Graeme whines, then blinks, shocked at the amount of need in his voice. Desire tips into anxiety for a second, and he shakes his head, trying to get back the nice feelings, not these ones, the ones that bring a cold surreality to his life.

“I’ve got you, baby boy.” Alan cups his face, nipping at his lips again. “Don’t go away on me. You’re perfect, just like this. There you go,” he murmurs when Graeme relaxes again. He deftly flips their positions, sitting on the edge of the bed and spreading his legs open wide.

Graeme licks his lips, dropping to his knees between Alan’s legs, and looks up at him, ready for the order.

“God, you’re so perfect, though. Such a good little sub for me. You just love to suck my cock, don’t you, baby boy?”

“I do, please, Daddy.” That desperate edge is back, but this time, Graeme welcomes it because he knows Alan does.

Alan pets over his hair, messing up the style, not that Graeme minds. He wants to look well-used, well-fucked by the end of this. “Open up my pants and take me out.”

Graeme follows the directions, pulling out Alan’s half-hard cock and rubbing his thumb gently over the head. “May I blow you, sir?”

Alan grins. “Go ahead.”

Just like the last time, when Graeme cock-warmed Alan for a long, blissful hour, Alan’s not fully hard. It’s something, however that Graeme realizes he enjoys quite a lot, the feeling of Alan getting harder and harder in his mouth. Slowly filling him.

Unlike the last time, though, this time Alan really leans into the power play aspect, grabbing Graeme’s hair and moving his mouth exactly where and how fast he wants it. Alan reaches down, pulling up Graeme’s hand and placing it on his thigh, making sure he has easy access to tapping out in case he needs to. And then, he fucks Graeme’s mouth.

Graeme goes mindless, the small tug at his hair barely a pain, the ache in his jaw nothing to the feeling of his Daddy using him to get hard. Alan is groaning, hardening and lengthening in Graeme’s mouth. Graeme opens his jaw wider to accommodate him, though he hasn’t quite worked up to deep throating yet. He’s a little too afraid of gagging, and then doing something gross and ruining the moment, but what he lacks in depth he makes up for with enthusiasm, bobbing on Alan’s cock and swirling his tongue over the head.

Alan pulls him off, letting him pant and catch his breath, resting his head on Alan’s thigh as Alan strokes through his hair, praising his good work. Alan’s cock is shiny, spit-covered and glossy and stiff. After a little rest, Alan tugs at Graeme’s sleeve. “Up on the bed for me, baby.”

He stands on shaky legs with help from Alan, who pauses him to press a kiss to his stomach. It makes Graeme gasp and squirm a little, turned on. When he slips onto the bed beside Alan, he goes onto his hands and knees, letting his legs slide apart so Alan can see the plug there.

“Mmm, and how was this tonight, baby?” Alan’s fingers smooth over the base of the plug as he shifts around.

“Wish it was your cock, Daddy,” Graeme whispers, arching toward Alan a little higher.

Alan unbuttons his shirt, but keeps it on, and his pants, and the imbalance of clothes makes Graeme dizzy, sliding him more into his headspace. He widens his knees and presses up, whining, “Daddy.”

“Shh, shh, shh,” he comforts, running a warm hand down Graeme’s spine. With his other hand, he pulls out the plug slowly, then pushes it back in, rocking it against Graeme’s prostate. Graeme’s fingers clutch into the bedspread.

He teases like that for a few minutes, making Graeme whine and moan and press his face into the covers. Finally, _finally,_ Alan removes the plug completely, and immediately stuffs two lubed fingers inside Graeme, prepping him for his cock. “Mmm, you’re all ready for me, aren’t you, baby. Stayed all nice and loose, just for me.” He’s up to three fingers already, Graeme’s hips shoving back to meet his fingers.

“Please, please sir, fuck me, please, I want your cock,” Graeme moans.

“I know,” Alan croons, “but baby is a virgin, and Daddy wants to make sure he doesn’t hurt you.”

God, in all honesty, lost in the headspace of Baby Boy, he kind of forgot that he’s never done this before. “You take good care of me,” he mumbles.

“Always.”

He feels Alan’s cock pressing at his hole, and he tenses, then relaxes when Alan kisses his shoulder and whispers praise in his ear. He’s so desperate, so turned on, it should be easy, but it’s— it’s different than fingers, different than the plug. It’s so much more stunningly _intimate._ Alan’s cock is warm steel inside of him, unyielding as it slides over his prostate. “Color?” Alan asks hoarsely, and Graeme knows he’s holding back for his sake.

“Green. Keep going, please, nice and slow.”

Alan wraps one arm around his body as he sinks in, bottoms out. “Oh, baby boy, you feel so good on my cock.”

Graeme squirms, feeling a little like the pressure from the inside might make him choke. “Green, Daddy,” he says, almost a reminder, and Alan chuckles low in his ear.

“Don’t be a brat. I’ll go when I’m ready.”

He slides out slowly, almost all the way, then pushes in relentlessly, bottoming out again. Graeme moans, trying to arch his hips back and take him deeper, but Alan’s weight is heavy and grounding on top of him. He spreads Graeme’s legs wider, practically making Graeme do a butterfly stretch to get even closer, then he presses a hand to Graeme’s back, holding him down, and begins to rock.

It’s— it’s the most amazing thing Graeme has ever felt, and he thinks, if Alan’s not always up for this, then they’re going to have to invest in some dildos because Graeme now might have an _addiction._

Alan is fucking good with it, too, at least, as far as Graeme can tell, changing pace and angle and keeping Graeme’s body guessing. It’s hard and fast, and slow and sweet, and brutal against his prostate, and then Alan’s giving him a break to catch his breath. Graeme is well and truly _wrecked,_ his mind floating off somewhere while his body just takes it, takes the pleasure as Alan takes his, a mutual taking that’s so fucking sweet.

There’s enough friction between his body and the sheets that he comes at some point, he’s fairly sure. Honestly, it feels kind of like one big long orgasm, his toes curling, his mind reeling, shivers of pleasure wracking his body.

“Fuck, baby, you’re so tight when you clench like that, so sweet,” Alan says through gritted teeth, and then he’s pounding harder, and gripping Graeme’s hips, and pouring inside him.

Graeme collapses against the bed, uncaring of the mess beneath his stomach. He doesn’t want to move for a million years, if forever isn’t an option.

“So good, so good for me baby, so good, I love you so much,” Alan murmurs against his ear, taking small nipping bites in between.

The L word floats through Graeme's brain, but in his subspace, it means nothing but warmth and happiness and forever, not the anxiety it will probably produce later. Right now, he’s riding waves of endorphins, and they feel _so good._

 _“I’m_ the waves,” he mumbles into the bedspread, voice raspy.

“Yes, you are, sweetheart,” Alan responds, chuckle evident in his voice. He slips out, and Graeme doesn’t like that, whining, but Alan soothes him again. “I’ll be right back, baby, I’m just going to get us stuff to clean up. And new sheets.”

Graeme grunts at that, not wanting to leave his happy endorphin cocoon. But the washcloth feels really good on his ass, and again on his stomach when Alan rolls him over and cleans him off. He probably makes it hard for Alan to get his job done, because he keeps trying to capture the man in his arms and bring him in for the cuddles that always end their scenes.

“All right, all right.” Alan sounds lovingly exasperated. “Come here, Graeme.”

Graeme cuddles into his rightful place, happy that Alan’s gotten naked, so he can really press himself into Alan’s skin and be surrounded by him.

 

Graeme has some song stuck in his head, and he bops his hips to it as he stirs the veggie scramble precisely in the pan so that the eggs will stay fluffy. He hums, smiling, thinking about last night.

“I’ve never heard you sing before.”

Graeme turns to smile at Alan, who makes a pretty picture, leaning up against the door jamb in his boxers. “Good morning.”

Alan walks over, sweeping hands around his waist and nuzzling into his neck. “What’s got you in such a good mood?”

“Well. I mean, I don’t want to speculate, but I did get fucked into the mattress last night, and it was pretty great.”

Alan chuckles against his skin. “Glad I could oblige.”

“It could be—” Graeme’s tone becomes more serious, “I don’t want to get my hopes up, but it could be the meds. I didn’t need the rain sounds last night.”

“That’s true, you stayed asleep all night. I don’t see why we can’t be hopeful about it being that. Or maybe a combo of both. I’m perfectly willing to add that to your prescription. 25mg pill once a day, and a good fuck once a week.”

Graeme laughs, turning to press a kiss to Alan’s cheek. “Only once a week?”

“Well, I am pretty old.”

“I was thinking…” At Alan’s disgruntled look, Graeme laughs again as he takes the eggs off of the burner. “No, not that you’re old! This has nothing to do with that, more to do with your gray-sexuality? If it’s okay for me to talk about that?”

Alan gets two plates down from the cupboard and hands them off to Graeme, looking distinctly uncomfortable. Still, he allows, “I’d rather you talk about it than avoid talking about it.”

Graeme dishes up the eggs, walking over to set them on the table of the small breakfast nook the Airbnb has. “I know it’s a sensitive topic, and I know it’s caused you a lot of confusion and unhappiness.” Hands free, he slides them around Alan’s waist, pulling him into a hug and resting his head on Alan’s heart. His skin is still blanket warm. His teddy bear. **“** I was just thinking… times when you didn’t want to use your dick, we could get a dildo.”

Alan’s arms loosen around him, then squeeze him tight again. **“** Jeez, you had me nervous.” He kisses Graeme’s forehead. “I’d love to go dildo shopping with you. I love that suggestion. Thank you for thinking about my... whatever.”

“I just don’t want you to feel pressured, but I—” Graeme ducks his head. “Fuck, Alan, I really loved it.”

Alan’s hand comes up to play over the hair at the nape of his neck, a small gesture of love and possession, unbidden, but welcome. “I loved it, too. You were so sweet beneath me. Perfect.” He leans over, taking Graeme’s mouth in a short, sweet kiss. “I’d also love to see you split on some obscenely huge dildo, wrecked as I fuck you with it.”

Graeme’s face is _on fire._ “I’d like that too,” he manages.

“I love your blush.” Alan thumbs over his cheek, looking fond.

Graeme pushes him down into a seat. “Close your eyes, I have a present for you.”

“Are we adding blindfolds to the list?” Alan laughs, but complies, letting his eyes close. “Is the present because I fucked you so well?”

Graeme ignores him as he rummages in his knitting bag until he finds the right one, then sneaks back over to Alan and pulls the hat down over his sandy hair. “It looks perfect!”

“Can I open my eyes now?”

“Yes, you dork. Go look in the mirror.”

He’d chosen a deep red/orange variegation for Alan, and it looks perfect with his coloring. No small amount of pride fills Graeme’s heart.

“This is really cool, Graeme! I love it!” Alan is admiring himself in the hallway mirror, voguing, making Graeme laugh. He comes back over to Graeme, swinging him around the living room, then bringing him in for a huge kiss. “And every time I wear it, I’m going to think about you. What was it you told my sister?”

Graeme fingers over the soft material, then comes down to scritch at Alan’s beard. “ **‘** With love in mind.’ The woman who taught me, Mrs. Mcree? She used to make prayer shawls. Basically, while she was making the shawl, she was thinking, and praying, and then when she was done, the shawl would go to her church, and be given to someone who was having a crisis, that kind of thing. And they would know that it had been made with love in mind.”

There’s the L word again, their own personal elephant in the room. But Alan doesn’t draw attention to it. “I love it,” he says simply, sweeping Graeme up into another kiss. “There’s magic in that.”

Graeme is blushing, again, as Alan leads them back over to finish up their food. The ridiculous man leaves the hat on all through breakfast, even though he’s obviously overwarm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Hubba Hubba](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jzsCIENC9IQ)


	27. Vacation, part 3 - Alan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graeme and Alan continue enjoying their vacation and come to some important conclusions.

There’s this decadent papasan out on the insulated porch, and it takes Alan very little convincing for Graeme to snuggle up with him under a pile of blankets in it and watch the sun climb higher in the sky. His boyfriend is utterly relaxed, and they slip in and out of conversation broken up by kisses, like they have all the time in the world to waste like this. 

The feeling in his chest is overwhelming, when he looks at Graeme’s smile, the way Graeme’s chin is resting on his chest and how he’s looking up adoringly at him. 

He’s so very close to whispering the words he said last night.  _ I love you. _ They’d both been high on endorphins, so he holds them back, stroking through Graeme’s hair instead, as Graeme tells him a funny story from high school. 

Graeme has more of those than Alan would think, and it’s heartening, to know his life wasn’t pure hell before they met. That the safety the meds provide, and, maybe, he’s provided too, means that Graeme can dig out the good. 

The talking becomes less frequent than the kissing, until they’re just sliding kiss into kiss, Graeme laying on top of him, fitting in the space between his legs, his hand on Alan’s chest. Alan curls one of his legs around Graeme’s, pulling him closer, and his groan is drowned in Alan’s lips. 

_ “Alan—”  _ His whisper is harsh against Alan’s ear, and Alan grins, sliding his hand down Graeme’s back and cupping his ass, squeezing another groan out of him. 

“I love how your ass fits in my hand, have I told you that?” He sucks a little under Graeme’s ear, not enough to mark, not with Graeme very likely heading on a job hunt as soon as they get back. “You want to get off?”

The way Graeme’s hips are grinding against him, he’s surprised when Graeme shakes his head. “Just wanna kiss.” 

“That I can do.” Still, he’s happy Graeme’s wearing lounge pants, because as Graeme sinks into another kiss, he slides his hands under the waistband and grabs two handfuls of ass this time, getting comfortable with him there, rocking him gently as they make out. He gets it, anyway— Graeme doesn’t want his floaty, happy time to end, and coming puts a rather abrupt pause on things. 

Gasping, Graeme pushes back on Alan’s chest, looking down on him from above, his face flushed. Alan has a vision of Graeme riding him this way, or fucking him — either possibility delicious in his mind. Because he can trust Graeme that way. He smiles, feeling just a little vulnerable as Graeme looks down at him. 

Graeme reaches out to trace over his lips, scratch his beard. “We should get dressed and go for a walk,” he mumbles, his voice as strained as his cock is against his lounge pants. 

“Would you let me do a scene with you at an event?” 

Graeme blinks, then leans over to give Alan another sweet kiss. “Yes.” 

“Would you let me fuck you in front of people?”

“Yes.” 

“Really?”

“Considering I’m calling a halt to this because I want you to fuck me right here and now, and that will surely get us kicked out of this rental, yes, really.” 

Alan’s unable to keep the eager grin off of his face. “Awesome.” 

Graeme punches him lightly in the stomach. “Awesome? You’re such a nineties kid. No— hey!”

Graeme half-screams, half-laughs as Alan lifts him up over his shoulder and carries him back to the bedroom caveman style to change their clothes. 

 

They stroll to the waterfront hand-in-hand, stopping to read the historical plaques at Graeme’s insistence. “I didn’t know you were such a nerd,” Alan teases, solely attempting to get Graeme to punch him again, because he’s a glutton for punishment. 

“Takes one to know one.”

“Oh yes, excellent come back.” 

“Now who’s the smartass?”

Alan taps his chin in consideration. “I don’t know, your ass is pretty sweet, actually.” 

“My ass can be smart  _ and  _ sweet,” Graeme responds with a grin. 

“Yes, yes, it can.” He reaches down to goose it, earning himself another elbow. Christ, Graeme is a delight to tease. “Hey, you want to get some ice cream?” He nods toward a quaint-looking shop on the corner, the kind that also sells all the old fashioned candy. 

“I could go for some, yeah.” 

It’s an unusually warm afternoon for early March, and the ice cream shop is hopping. While Alan waits to pay for their orders, Graeme wanders over to the flyer wall, sipping on his raspberry sorbet milkshake. 

He’s still standing there, looking intently at the wall, when Alan walks over to join him, carrying his own scoop of chocolate cake batter ice cream in a waffle cone. Graeme doesn’t look up at him when he approaches, so Alan follows his line of sight to a flyer for the local community college over in Bremerton. 

“You mentioned once that you were thinking about going to college,” Alan murmurs. 

Graeme just continues to look at the flyer, breaths coming short. He's trapped in his head, and Alan's heart aches for him.   


“Talk to me, sweetie. Talk the spiral out.” He reaches out to rub over Graeme’s back, and Graeme finally seems to come back to himself a little. 

He looks around at the busy, loud shop. “Not here?” he asks quietly. 

Alan takes his hand and leads him back to the waterfront, because he knows Graeme's instincts when he's spiraling are to go to water. He finds them a bench and they sit, quietly eating their ice cream as seagulls scream and the waves lap against the dock. The snowy peaks of the Olympics are visible across the water. Graeme threads his fingers in Alan’s and leans on his shoulder, letting the vitamin D soak into his skin. It seems to be working, watching the waves. It makes Alan want to take Graeme away to some private beach, just the two of them and the ocean and the sun and nothing between them.   


Another time, he thinks, as he recognizes the little intake of breath that means Graeme's about to speak.

“If I talk the spiral out, I sound crazy,” he finally murmurs. 

“You’re not crazy.” 

Graeme shrugs a little, which sets off a little irrational frustration in Alan's brain. 

“You’re not. Say it.” 

“I’m not crazy.” It’s less than enthusiastic, but Alan doesn’t push again. It's not like his frustration at Graeme's jerk brain would get them anywhere. 

“No one’s here but me, and I already know a little how your mind works,” he points out instead. 

Graeme looks up at him, and Alan can almost pinpoint the exact moment Graeme decides to trust him. It makes Alan hold his breath, waiting. 

“I  _ was _ thinking about going to college, but in that ‘it’ll always be the dream I’ll never achieve’ sort of way, like owning my own home, or finding a steady job that had the same hours from week to week. Unattainable.” Graeme lets out a breath. “But that’s not true, anymore, because I know if I asked, you’d pay for it. You’d do it without even thinking about it, either loan me the money or pay for it outright. And that’s  _ worse _ somehow, like— like it was always unattainable, but now it’s not, because of you, but what if— what if I fail? When it was a pie-in-the-sky dream, I didn’t have to worry about that, did I? I could pretend in my head that I was great and smart and man, if only I had the resources, I would have made a great college student. 

“But why the fuck would I think that? I’m a mess. I can barely keep from spiraling. I don’t have a job. I—”

“You sang this morning,” Alan murmurs. He wants to say so much more. He wants to gather Graeme in his arms and reassure him that it’s all nonsense, just something his anxiety cooked up. 

But it’s all too real for Graeme, and Alan can’t just thrust that aside. 

“I sang this morning,” Graeme admits, looking out at the Sound. “The meds— even when I’m on them, it’s not like I’m miraculously better or something. It’s still always there.” 

“I know, baby. I’m not in l—” He cuts himself off, laughing at himself sarcastically because he can’t really believe he’s about to— Abruptly, he gets up, tosses the rest of his ice cream away. When he comes back, he’s more centered, but his brain isn’t any less determined. “I’ve fallen in love with messy-brained Graeme, anyway.” 

“Alan…” Graeme sets his cup down and pulls Alan’s face into his hands, searching his eyes. Whatever he sees there has him tearing up. “Tell me again.” 

“I’m in love—”

Graeme cuts him off with a kiss. “Sorry, again,” he says with a grin. 

Alan narrows his eyes, but can’t help but grin back. “I’m in love—”

Kiss. 

“With—”

Kiss. 

“You.” This time, Alan takes control, dragging his fingers through Graeme’s hair and pulling it hard as he manipulates their mouths into a crushing kiss. Graeme takes like raspberries, the perfect compliment to his chocolate. 

When Graeme pulls back, his eyes are glazed over with desire — and tears. 

“Hey, no, sweetie, what’s wrong?” Alan whispers, cupping Graeme’s face. 

“S’stupid.” He looks away, and Alan pulls him into a hug. “I just want it to be true,” he mumbles into Alan’s throat. 

“What to be true? That I’m in love with you?” Graeme nods. Alan takes a deep, steadying breath, but it comes out all shaky. He rubs over Graeme’s back as he tries to figure out how to navigate this particular minefield. “Believe what you need to believe, Graeme. I’ll be here, loving you, anyway.” 

It’s not a rejection, not really. Alan can see it for what it is — Graeme’s warped worldview because of his shitty life. He’s grateful Graeme didn’t immediately spiral. 

His fingers brush over the hair at the nape of Graeme’s neck and bites back more promises Graeme would view as empty. “Hey, are you hungry? We kind of skipped lunch and went straight for dessert, but I saw a bistro down the street.” 

Graeme snuffles and pulls back, wiping at his eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s do that.” 

 

When they’re waiting for their food to come, Alan takes Graeme’s hand over the table, rubbing slowly over his knuckles. “Can I bring up the college thing again, or do you want me to drop it for now?” he asks softly. 

They’re tucked in a back corner, but there’s still a view of the water, and Graeme goes back to looking at it, again, enough that the thought flits through Alan’s mind that maybe he should buy some waterfront property. 

“No, go ahead. It’s okay.” Graeme’s eyes look a little watery. After their scene last night, Alan's not surprised: his emotions are close to the surface, too. 

“What would you want to study, if money wasn’t an issue, and you had counseling and help to make sure you didn’t fail?”

Graeme surprises him by meeting his eyes. “That’s a lot of ‘if.’”

Alan gives a little shrug. “You told me once that’s your anxiety’s favorite game. So let’s flip it. What if there are no problems? What then?”

Graeme takes a small sip of water. “Culinary arts.” When Alan just nods, Graeme looks a little sheepish. “Obvious, huh?”

“Obvious that you’d enjoy yourself. You love cooking.” 

“But what if—”

“Remember, this round of ‘what if’ is brought to you by,” Alan does a little jazz hands motion in the air, “Positivity!”

Graeme chokes on a laugh. “Okay, hmmm…” He pauses to think, playing with the rim of his water glass. “What if…” He stops, and just smiles, frustrated, at Alan. 

“It’s a harder game to play, huh?”

“Yes.” Graeme sounds annoyed with himself. 

“Well. Tough.” 

Graeme sticks out his tongue. “There’s a program, well, a couple, in Seattle,” he says quietly, and Alan instantly sobers. 

“You looked into it?”

“It was a dream,” Graeme says with a shrug. “Safe to look into because it was never coming true.” 

Alan’s heart stutters, and turns over again, overcome with emotion. He leans across the small bistro table, cupping Graeme’s cheek, just rubbing over it. “Tell me more.” 

“South Seattle College has a good program. Sometimes I played around with the idea of figuring out the bus schedule. If I could scrounge up money for a class, that is. And if I could get a steady enough schedule to take it.” 

“What if…” Graeme gives him a soft smile at the phrase. “What if you just tried a class? I could loan you the money, if you want it that way, or I could invest it in you, whatever you feel more comfortable with. You can use Hendrick to get there, or take public transportation if that seems weird. I want— if you want to try, I want to do what I can to help.”

Their sandwiches come, and Graeme goes quiet, interacting with the waiter, then taking a tentative bite and humming. 

“Every single cell in my body is telling me to take you up on it,” he whispers around a bite. 

Alan waits him out. 

“So...okay.” 

“Yeah?”

Graeme nods, and he gives Alan that small smile again. “What if I’m the next Rachel Ray, and this is just the first step to my cooking empire?”

“If that happens, I expect a return on my investment with 10 percent interest,” Alan says very seriously. 

Graeme sticks his hand out over the table. “Done.” 

Smiling, Alan shakes it. “Oo. Nice and firm. Very good.” 

“I’m trying desperately not to make a ‘that’s what she said’ joke while I’m conducting a business deal, Alan.” 

“I like you all official-sounding like this, though. It’s getting me a little hot under the collar, to be honest.” 

“You’re a dork.” 

“You’re a smartass. And I love you. College student.” 

Graeme melts in front of him, his face going a flaming red. “Holy fuck.” 

Alan pulls Graeme’s hand over and kisses it. “You’ve got this, okay? I’m here, but— but even if I weren’t, you could do this.” 

“Would you be up for a blow job when we get back to the rental? I kind of want to zone out on your cock and not think about it for a bit.” 

Alan stares at him for about three seconds. “I appreciate you asking, and yes, yes I would.” 

Graeme grins.


	28. Vacation, part 4 - Graeme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aforementioned blow job, and some more talking, because that's what these boys love to do.

Alan’s hand is in his hair, his cock in his mouth, the buzz of some sci-fi show Alan wanted to watch on the screen above him. He’s not sure if Alan is actually watching, but he’s mostly ignoring Graeme, and that’s what Graeme wants anyway. He just wants to make Alan feel good, and zen out for a bit. 

It’s Alan who breaks first, stroking the bangs out of his eyes and looking at him intently some indiscernible time later. “You’re so fucking good at that, baby boy,” he murmurs. 

He whimpers, lost in it, loving it. He’s safe and happy and at least here in subspace he can be pretty sure Alan loves him, be sure that Alan’s going to catch him if he falls, because he can trust Alan. It's the most glorious feeling in the world, and he practically purrs against Alan's cock. He looks up, meeting Alan's eyes, and there's nothing but love there, love and trust for him, too. _I could fall in love with you, too,_ he thinks, but doesn't have the courage to say.   


Something in his eyes must give him away, though, because Alan's hand caresses his cheek and then pulls him off his cock. “Come here, baby boy, you deserve a reward. You did such a good job for me, sweetheart. You’re such a patient boy.” 

Graeme just rests his head against Alan's thigh, looking up at him adoringly. He loves being on his knees for Alan. He loves the way Alan is looking down at him now, so soft and warm. After a few moments, Alan helps Graeme up, because Graeme is decidedly unsteady. Before he knows it, Alan has slid down his pants and brought him into a straddle on his lap. “Can you reach the lube for me, baby?” he asks as he presses kisses to Graeme’s neck. 

With stuttered breathing, Graeme reaches behind him for the lube, and passes it off before leaning his body fully on Alan, surrendering into him even as Alan continues to praise him. 

“I can’t get enough of this ass,” Alan mutters with no small amount of wonderment. “You have the perfect ass. I can’t wait to take you over my knee and show you impact play, you’re going to be so pretty for me, baby.” 

Graeme feels two slicked fingers press up inside him, and he groans, rolling his hips back. He barely registers Alan’s words beyond the dirtiness of them. Right now, all he wants to do is feel full again, like he did last night. 

“So needy for it.” Alan laughs a little in his ear as he pulls his fingers tantalizingly out, to make Graeme chase him with his hips. “Oh, my, I’m going to enjoy edging you. You’re so perfect and responsive, baby.” 

Graeme sobs into Alan’s neck as three fingers scissor him open, now, not brushing close enough to his prostate, at least not in his opinion. “Daddy—” he gasps out. “Please let me have your cock, pleeease.” 

“When you ask so nicely…” Alan’s fingers leave him again, and then the blunt head of his cock is pushing into Graeme, and Graeme grips at Alan’s shirt, his fingers digging in. 

“Oh, fuck, baby boy, you are so fucking tight and warm.” The position, the gravity of Graeme sinking onto his dick, makes Graeme feel fuller than last night. When he bottoms out, he’s fairly sure he can feel Alan in his throat. He leans back, and groans, the angle perfect on his prostate and also making Alan feel even bigger. 

“Oh, oh god, Daddy, it feels so good—” He’s gasping for breath, panting, squeezing around Alan. 

He jumps when Alan smacks his ass lightly, the movement making him grind up and down on Alan's cock deliciously. “Ride me, baby. You can do it. Make yourself feel good.” 

Graeme whimpers again, steadying his hands on Alan’s shoulders and rolling his hips experimentally.  _ Oh. Oh, fuck. _ Graeme whines at the sustained pressure on his prostate. He grinds himself on Alan’s dick again, his hips making tiny circles that keep his prostate stimulated.

“That’s it, Graeme, make yourself come. Make yourself come for Daddy. You look so perfect on Daddy’s dick.” Alan’s hand wraps around Graeme’s cock, and that’s all he needs — two or three hard strokes, and he’s coming all over Alan’s shirt. He keeps circling his hips, riding the high of the orgasm until it gets to be too much, and he collapses on Alan’s chest, spent. 

He lets his eyes close, and he doesn’t even open them when he feels Alan moving them. Alan’s cock is no longer inside of him, which makes him sad, but it’s hard to feel too sad when he’s cuddled against Alan’s chest like this. At the sound of the shower turning on, he sighs. It sounds like his rain sounds. 

“Okay, Graeme, sweetheart, time to get clean. Damn, I wish we were home with the tub. This might be jarring.” 

Graeme groans as Alan eases him under the water, but it’s soothingly warm, and he melts into Alan’s arms again. It brings him to the surface, and he mouths over Alan's now-wet skin. “Fuck, that felt so good, Alan.” He presses a kiss to Alan’s cheek. “You didn’t come, though.” 

Alan’s soapy hands are massaging over him, working on the kinks in his back from leaning over for so long. “Eh. Sure, I didn’t come, but I still got a lot of pleasure out of that. You have no idea how good you looked, cheek pillowed against my thigh, lips wrapped around my dick, spacing out like it was the only thing you wanted to do for the rest of your life. I’ll be thinking about that scene for a while.” His chuckle rumbles against Graeme’s neck. “Mostly during long, boring meetings.” 

“Naughty,” Graeme says with a smile, sinking back in Alan’s arms and enjoying the steam, holding onto the last vestiges of his subspace. 

“This is why I’m happy telepathy doesn’t exist.” Alan massages shampoo into his hair, making his scalp tingle under the ministrations **.** “I don’t want to inflict what’s going on in my mind when I’m bored on anyone. Well, maybe you.” 

“Oh? Do tell.” 

“I imagine wrapping you up in the shibari I’ve seen done on others, wrap by wrap, lines of rope pressing into your skin as you patiently sit through it. You give me the confidence that I could actually try it.” 

Graeme hums. “That sounds nice. We should try that sometime. How come it seems like our list only gets longer, not shorter?”

“I don’t know, but I sure as hell am glad I found you. You’re perfect.” 

“I’m not, though.” 

Alan sighs, but it’s not a sigh of disappointment, like he might when he’s Daddy and Graeme has said something self-deprecating. It’s more...a sigh of acceptance, Graeme thinks, which Alan confirms. “I know. You’re not perfect, but… I love you how you are, anyway.” 

Graeme’s heart thuds in his chest, and he turns, cupping Alan’s cheeks. “You’re precious to me,” he says, which isn’t the same thing, and he knows that, too. He searches Alan’s face for disappointment, but there’s none, just a brightness in Alan’s eyes before he’s pulled in for a kiss. 

Not wanting to waste water, they hop out of the shower before much longer, and Alan takes over drying Graeme’s skin, even though he’s no longer in subspace and feeling mostly steady.  _ Restoring the power balance, _ Graeme remembers. He can’t say he minds watching Alan rub him down with the soft towel. 

When he’s done, he presses a kiss to Graeme’s shoulder before wrapping him up in one of the provided robes. It’s soft, and Graeme snuggles into it without thinking. Alan’s eyes are hot on his, though, as he does. “What?”

“You love soft things.”

“Who doesn’t?” Graeme asks, even as he drops his hands to stop rubbing the robe over his skin, self-conscious all of a sudden. 

“I love wrapping you up in soft things. I want you to have all of the soft things.” Alan kisses his cheek. “You deserve them.” 

“Aw, Alan, that’s sweet—”

“Well. I also want to lay you out naked on the bed, maybe tied up so you can’t move, and use soft things on you. And hard things.” 

Graeme shivers, pulling on Alan’s robe and pressing their mouths together. “Is there a name for that?”

“Sensation play. I think you’d be really into it.” 

“I’m green so far. I mean, not right now. But for the future.” 

“Yeah. There’s an event next weekend. I want to save sensation play for just us, at home, where I can take my time with you, but I was thinking about impact. I mean, if you want to.” 

Graeme takes a minute to consider it, while his fingers play over Alan’s arm. Finally, he looks back at Alan’s face. “I want to.” 

At Alan’s grin, Graeme perks up, giving Alan a smack on  _ his _ perfect ass. “I’m going to blow your mind with my dinner suggestion.” 

“I mean, you already blew my mind earlier.” 

“Pizza? There’s a woodfire place that delivers, I saw it in the Airbnb guest book thingy.” 

“Because Domino’s isn’t good enough for my foodie.” 

“I’m  _ not _ a foodie! I thought you’d be happy to order in!”

Alan laughs, pulling Graeme in for a messy kiss. “Oh, I am. C’mon.” 

 

They end up eating on the couch — thank fuck, Alan managed to make sure no cum or lube ended up on it, that would have been fucking embarrassing. Alan wants to finish up the episode of the show he was watching earlier, and that’s such a fucking ace sentiment that Graeme has to laugh and point it out. 

“I mean, why have sex when there’s TV?” Alan replies, taking it in good humor. 

“Fair point.” He presses a slightly greasy kiss to Alan’s cheek, then wipes it off with a napkin. “Thanks for letting me blow you anyway.” 

Alan seeks out Graeme’s hand, and Graeme lets him slide their fingers together. He’s suddenly serious, and Graeme’s anxiety flares up. But then Alan smiles, and kisses his forehead. “You didn’t pressure me into it, or make me feel like I had to. I could have come up with another way to get you in subspace that didn’t involve my dick. I agreed because— because I know you’re not just using me.” 

Graeme’s heart leaps into his throat. “Oh, sweetie, Alan, never.” 

“I know. I know that now. I’m stronger, now. Just. Anyway. I wanted you to know.” 

He invites Graeme over to his lap, and Graeme complies, letting him curl his arms around Graeme and lean his head on his shoulder as they relax together. Graeme’s not really interested in the show, he missed most of the plot when he was getting his brain fucked out, so he pulls out his phone. 

Bolstered by Alan’s arms around him, and their steady breaths, he types in the website of the college. He might have it memorized. It may not have really sunk in that he’s actually doing this. 

They’ve changed the picture for the culinary program information. There’s a pretty girl making an excited face as she tosses something around in a pan. Graeme wonders if it’s a stock photo, or an actual student. The girl looks exceptionally enthusiastic about sauteing, but then again, Alan had caught him just this morning, dancing while cooking, hadn’t he?

He scrolls until he finds the registration dates for the next few quarters — this, he stopped memorizing a year ago. They’re registering for spring quarter now, the quarter beginning after spring break, on March—

“Oh—” He colors when he realizes he spoke aloud in the quiet of the living room and gulps, waiting for the spiral to come. He takes a deep breath, and another, feeling Alan go all aware and intent underneath him. He’s going to have to explain himself soon, and— And— “Oh,” he says again, because the spiral doesn’t come. Holy fuck. _Holy fuck._ Tears spring into his eyes, and he swipes at them, then pulls Alan into a fierce hug.

“It’s okay, baby, it’s okay. You’re alright,” Alan whispers soothingly. “Can you explain what just happened?”

Graeme laughs, still a little teary, rubbing his face with his hands. “I just— I just forgot how good it feels to be on meds that are working,” he whispers, melting into Alan’s embrace. 

Alan pulls him into a straddle on his lap, so they can really get close, and just rocks with him. It could be sexual, but it’s not, it’s just touch, and sensation, yes, but not arousal. It’s just...love. 

After a few minutes, Graeme pulls back, wiping his face. “Thanks. Thank you. For everything.” 

Alan’s lips twist up into a smile, the kind that makes his eye crinkles pop out. “Thanks for the magic hat.” He presses kisses to Graeme’s forehead. “You were on the college website?”

“You saw, huh?”

“Just a little, over your shoulder.”

“I can still register for a spring quarter class, registration doesn’t end until March 21st.” 

“That’s your birthday, right?” The look on Alan’s face tells Graeme that he knows the answer to that question. 

“How’d you remember?”

“I made a memo in my phone.” Alan looks sheepish, and it makes Graeme laugh. “I know, not very romantic, right?”

Graeme rests his forehead on Alan’s. “It’s totally romantic to put me in your phone. I haven’t even asked you. Such a bad boyfriend.” 

“June 11th.” 

Graeme makes a point of adding it to his calendar, setting it up as a annually recurring event with no stopping point. It’s a silly little digital commitment, easily deleted should— should the worst happen, but Alan squeezes him tightly and kisses him senseless anyway. 

He finds he relishes it, these little moments of weaving their lives together. 

“Do you want to try spring quarter?”

“I— yeah, I think so. I don’t know, I’ve never had the luxury of failing, before. It feels weird.” 

Alan hugs him close again. “I’m happy to be your safety net.” 

“I know you are, you strange man.” 

“It’s really not that strange, wanting to be someone’s helping hand.” 

Graeme’s retort is ready on his tongue, but he frowns, and thinks. “I guess it isn’t. That’s what my mom was searching for in all of those men all her life. Is still searching for, probably.”

“Having someone in your corner, that you know you can fall back on, it’s a pretty addictive feeling.” Alan presses a kiss to the skin of his neck. “We don’t always find it without strings. I’m sorry you suffered because your mom didn’t find a good partner.” 

Graeme’s hand comes up to Alan’s chest, over his heartbeat. “Sometimes it feels better to just not try, to have no partner at all, and cut out that entire problem altogether.” He’s grateful when Alan stays silent, lets him think and process. “My heart gets why what I have with you isn’t dangerous like my mom’s relationships were, even if my brain isn’t there yet, Alan,” he finally murmurs. 

“That’s enough for me.” He pulls Graeme back into his arms, and brushes their mouths together. They get lost like that for a while, kissing, cuddling, drifting.


	29. That Post-Vacation Depression, part 1 - Alan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alan and Graeme have fun getting ready for G's birthday. After vacation, Alan has a rather unpleasant meeting.

Alan doesn’t bring up the college stuff again until they’re walking back from brunch the next day. Graeme’s hand in his, the wind blowing in off the water making their cheeks pink. Alan’s wearing his hat, even though it’s probably too warm for it, even in the morning fog. He doesn’t care; it’s a tangible acknowledgement of Graeme’s feelings.

“If you’re ready to start the process, I’m ready to write a check.”

Graeme squeezes his hand but doesn’t respond.

Back at the rental, though, he sets up Alan’s laptop on the breakfast nook table — okay, so Alan may have brought it along to sneak in _a little_ work yesterday while Graeme knitted — and pulls up the website. “Last time I was doing research, I saw that I could apply online, that it’s ridiculously easy.”

“Community colleges tend to want people to come to them, so they make it easy. That doesn’t mean it’s any less of an experience.”

“Did you go to one?”

“No, but you talk with Rick enough, you learn the whole spiel.” He watches Graeme click his way through the site like an expert, which tells Alan everything he needs to know about his decision. His guy has been dreaming about this long enough that he has the whole site memorized. It gives him a special sort of thrill of satisfaction to be able to make his dream come true. “You know, we could swing by for a visit. Or you could go by yourself, if you think I’ll be old and embarrassing.”

Graeme laughs, nudging Alan with his shoulder. “You’re not embarrassing, but I wouldn’t want to pull you from work. I can go by myself. Maybe when we get back, actually.” He looks genuinely excited — and nervous — about the prospect, which just reaffirms Alan's decision in his head. 

“Well.” Alan leans in to press a kiss to Graeme’s nose. “Just keep your phone in your pocket, and you’re never alone.”

“Aww.” Graeme kisses him back. “Dork.”

“Smartass.”

He slips an arm around Graeme’s waist as Graeme types out the answers to his application. Graeme pauses before hitting submit, taking a deep breath, so Alan gives him a small squeeze. “You can do this.”

Graeme lets the breath out, and smiles at him. “Yeah.” He hits the button.

It’s kind of a let down, because of course it’s a Saturday, so Graeme’s not going to get a reply until the next business day, but he does get an email telling him his next steps. They work through the process of financial aid — the small smile on Graeme’s face as he clicks the ‘I’m paying out of pocket’ option is one Alan is going to treasure for a long time.

And then it’s done, and Graeme’s a little teary, so Alan hugs him close. “I’m proud of you.”

“Nothing to be proud of yet.”

“Fuck that. Be proud of everything.”

Graeme firms his lip and gives him a very serious nod. Christ, Alan loves him so much. He doesn't even understand how it grew this fast, this hard, in such a short amount of time, but now he's here and he doesn't really give a fuck how fast it was.

He pulls Graeme in for a huge bear hug, murmuring in his ear about how proud he is. He feels Graeme flush with pleasure against his cheek, and he leans back to press a kiss there, on the hot skin, the dazed look of pleasure in his eyes. Something intangible and amazing, like a rush of endorphins, fills Alan, and he hugs him close again. When he releases Graeme, he smiles broadly, turning them back to the laptop. “Okay, well, now that that’s gone as far as it can today, we need to figure out plans for your birthday. It’s the big 2-1 after all. And it’s your golden birthday. 21 on the 21st.”

Graeme scowls. “It’s not like I’ll be drinking, not with my meds.”

“Okay, but still. I’m going to spoil you rotten, come on, you have to let me.”

That makes Graeme laugh outright. “Since when have I had any say in how much you spoil me?”

“Fair point.” Alan’s hand smooths over his neck and pulls him in for a kiss. “You mentioned something about a hockey tradition.”

Graeme shrugs, though he looks pleased that Alan remembered and he's just trying to pass it off as nonchalance. “Yeah, the last few years I’ve saved up and gotten a ticket to the Thunderbirds.”

“We should do that, then.”

“I mean, we don’t have to.”

“It’s your birthday, sweetheart. We’re going to follow your tradition. Anything else?”

Graeme shakes his head. “That probably sounds pathetic.”

“Not at all. It just means I have a blank canvas to work with. Well, almost blank. Hey, where’s their website, let’s just get tickets right now.”

Graeme watches with some amusement as Alan pulls the laptop to himself and starts clacking at the keyboard. “Okay, got it. Hmmm. What are the good seats?”

“I mean, I normally just go for the cheapest.” Graeme taps on the screen near the top of the stadium.

Alan scrunches his nose. “Sure, but it’s your birthday. You deserve the best. Here we go, how about these?” He points out some on the seating chart that seem good, but what does he know about sportsball?

Graeme’s eyes visibly widen. “Um, yeah, those look good. Or, you know, higher up if you want.”

 _Jackpot._ “Nope. Only the best for my birthday boy." He clicks through, mentally noting the hours the clubhouse is open so he can deck his man out in Thunderbirds gear. It takes another minute to pay for the tickets, and the whole time, Graeme keeps looking at him nervously, like he's going to balk at the price and change his mind.  _No such luck, babe._

"Hey, while we’re at it—” Alan does some more clicking, heading to a favored site. “We should get you something from here, too. Although the shipping can be slow, so it might not be here in time. We can always go to a shop, though. There are a ton of good storefronts in Seattle.”

He laughs as Graeme’s eyes bulge at the screen, which is now covered in various sex toys. “God, you’re really so cute when you blush, Graeme. Come on, you’re the one that brought it up. What kind of dildo do you want?”

Graeme uses the trackpad to scroll down, his cheeks _flaming._ “How are there _so many?”_

“Oh, honey, if you can think of it, a dildo of it exists. We haven’t even looked at a custom website, yet. There are some really creative people out there. Want help narrowing it down?”

“Yes. Yes, please.”

“What size do you like?”

“I mean.” Graeme coughs and turns his face into Alan's neck, and Alan pulls him into his lap for a little comfort snuggling. “Your cock has felt pretty good,” he finally comes out with. 

“That’s good. Does it feel like you’re pretty full, or do you think you have room for more?” Alan's fingers play with his hair, stroking through it, soothing, even though it's so damn cute how shy Graeme can be.

Graeme covers his face with his hands for a second, and seems to mumble to himself. Alan just rubs his back through it. “I don’t know why this is so hard to talk about. We have awesome sex. I fucking call you daddy, and I can’t talk about how you feel inside me?”

“You are the sweetest person.” Alan continues to rub over his back. “You know _I_ won’t judge, baby, but if you don't want to, right now, we won't.”

He takes a few steadying breaths while looking into Alan's eyes. Once again, he can see when Graeme decides to trust him, to go forward, and it humbles Alan to his core. He links their fingers together, trying to silently promise he'll never betray that trust.

 **“** I feel pretty full, but I don’t know, I could try more, maybe?” Graeme sounds a little unsure, a little curious. 

“You probably don’t even realize you’re flattering me.” Alan kisses his forehead. “I’m kind of average.”

“You’re fine!”

“Well, you’re new. Also ‘fine’ is the definition of ‘average.’” Alan grins when Graeme laughs at that, all possible defensiveness he apparently feels on behalf of Alan's dick passing.

“But, I mean, I like how you feel, in me. In my mouth, my…” He coughs again.

“See, perfect. At least for me.” Alan pulls down a menu and picks a size. “These ones are basically my size, if you've liked that. We could also get one that’s a size bigger, and you can see if you like it. We can go slow, for sure. No need to get one that’s basically like fisting right now.”

“Or maybe never!” Graeme squeaks, shifting in his seat.

“Or maybe never,” Alan agrees easily. “You get to choose what you do and don’t want in your body, always, baby. I just want you to know your options. Which, when it comes to dildos, are endless.”

Graeme shakes his head, but they poke around the site for a bit until he finds two he wants to try, along with a remote vibrating plug that interests Alan — and Graeme seems interested, too, as well, more interested than the dildos, actually, which Alan thinks is...perfect. Discretely, he clicks priority shipping so they'll get here on time, and imagines using the vibrating plug on Graeme during the hockey game. Maybe. Something to suggest anyway.

“Well, that will make for a fun birthday.” Alan pulls Graeme into a hug, rocking him. “I’m feeling good about this. Registration. Hockey game. New toys. How are you feeling?”

“Overwhelmed,” Graeme says immediately. He pulls back, finding Alan’s eyes. “But also excited. More excited than overwhelmed, I think.”

“That’s good. Let me know if I push you too much into overwhelmed, okay? Traffic lights can work for other stuff, too.”

Graeme’s eyes go serious again. “And you too, right?”

“Exactly right.” He pulls Graeme into a hug, an overwhelming gratefulness at having found this man filling him.

 

Tuesday morning, and between daydreaming about vacation and waiting for Graeme's intermittent texts, Alan's fairly sure he hasn't gotten a lick of work done or answered a single of the hundreds of emails that cropped up over the long weekend away. The post-vacation depression is hitting something fierce, and he just wants to go back to the papasan, piled in blankets and wrapped up in Graeme's scent. If he closes his eyes, he can see Graeme's small smile as he reads a part of his book aloud to Alan, some book about knitting that he picked up during his Tuesday night knitting group meetup at the yarn shop. Alan doesn't get the joke, so Graeme has to explain it to him, all bright eyes and laughter and not realizing until the very end of the explanation that to see his enthusiasm was the reason Alan asked in the first place. It turns into an elbow to Alan's side, which turns into a wrestling match on the papasan, which turns into a very satisfying session of Alan holding down Graeme's wrists and edging the fuck out of him on the bed. He'd done well with it; there's a lot of potential for fun play there, although Graeme also shows potential for multiple orgasms, which would also be fun.

Basically, the building could start burning around his head, and he won't notice, because he's thinking of Graeme writhing underneath him as he pumps his cock.

It doesn't help that Graeme keeps sending him surreptitious and excited little texts about the college tour he's on. Seeing how anxious Graeme was this morning, trying to pick an outfit, Alan had attempted to come in an help, only to be unceremoniously pushed out of the bedroom because "No, Alan, I'm not wearing the Spider-Man pajamas, you dork, oh my god, I can't even right now—"

Eventually, he'd come out to the kitchen in dark wash jeans and a slim cream button down, looking young and professional and adorable and maybe Alan pushed him up against the fridge to kiss the hell out of him. He'd been careful not to muss Graeme's hair or his shirt, gripping his hips in the jeans and murmuring about how good he looked and how they should play when they got home to celebrate Graeme's next step, and Graeme went all red, and then Alan had had to let go or he _would_ have messed up some part of Graeme's outfit and Graeme didn't need that kind of extra anxiety right now.

They should go over sensation tools tonight, maybe, negotiate a scene for that.

“Good vacation, boss?”

Alan snaps out of his daydream and clears his throat as he looks at Mal. “Yeah.”

“Looked like it.” Mal waves their phone in front of him, one of those Seattle gossip blogs clearly displayed on it.

Alan groans. _“More?_ Jesus. I’m off the market, now, you’d think they’d calm down.” He takes the phone, making sure there’s nothing too embarrassing for Graeme floating around out there. Looks like someone spotted them at the ice cream shop, because the pictures, creepily, follow them from there to the waterfront bench where he’d fucking declared his love, to the bistro for lunch, before they stop. “It’s gross,” he mutters angrily. At least the apparent photographer hadn’t gotten close enough to hear what they’d been talking about at any given time.

Mal frowns, looking contrite for having made light of it. “Sorry, Al. At least your place has a doorman.”

“Yeah, but what’s to stop them from following Graeme around and causing him anxiety?”

“They’ll realize how gross and boring and old-coupley you are already and move on soon, I’m sure. The next hot bachelor will come along—”

“Hey, maybe I should give that lady from Seattle Met _your_ information.”

Mal grins, punching Alan in the arm. “I can just see it now. ‘Maybe they’re born with it, maybe it’s androgyny,’” they sing to the ad’s tune.

“You were born to be a star.”

They’re about to respond when their phone pings, and they glance down. “Oops, looks like someone buzzed the front desk, and that would technically be my job, not just standing around making sure you’re actually working, although if you _wanted_ to change my duties…”

“Yeah, no, get out there, I’m working, I’m working.”

He actually does manage to get back to work, just settling into his programming mode when Mal knocks on his door again, looking apologetic. “Um. There’s a woman out here— insisting on seeing you. She won’t leave. I can call security on her if you want me to escalate the situation—”

Alan frowns. “What’s the problem?”

“She says her name is, um, Bridget Webster…”

“Web—” Alan stops, raising his eyebrows at Mal.

They nod, a little pale. “Yeah. Graeme’s mom.”

Alan’s hand clenches around his mouse. “Send her back, but keep her waiting ten minutes.”

Mal nods again, turning to do his bidding, but pausing at the door frame. “You all right?”

“Yeah.” He unclenches his fist and prepares himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bet you didn't know this whole thing was going to end up being a PSA to look into your local community college because they've probably got really neat and cheap programs!
> 
> (I work with seniors in high school, and about 70% of our population goes to our local community college because it's really a good deal, and because of the specialized training programs they have.)


	30. That Post-Vacation Depression, part 2 - Graeme and Alan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, what did Bridget Webster want?

To Graeme’s surprise, it’s Alan waiting in the parking lot in his Tesla, not Hendrick in the town car, when he finishes community college orientation. His heart flutters a little to see Alan leaning against the hood of his car, dark glasses shielding his eyes as he works on his phone. Classic Alan mode. Graeme even manages to sneak up on him because he's distracted.

“This is a nice surprise,” he says with a smile, leaning up to kiss Alan on the cheek.

Alan slips his phone away and gathers him into a hug, taking a longer, deeper kiss from his lips. “How’d everything go?”

“It’s a lot.” Graeme pats the plastic shopping bag from the bookstore, all decked out with South Seattle College swag. “But. It was good. We got to go into the kitchens, check stuff out.”

Alan holds the door open for Graeme, and Graeme is so delighted by his day, by the small action, that he spontaneously rewards Alan with another peck on the cheek and a whispered, “You sweetie,” before getting in the car.

He lets Alan start navigating the parking lot before he says, “Thanks for picking me up. I thought you were busy catching up from vacation this afternoon?”

“Have you ever been to the sculpture park? It’s not that far from here, and it’s a beautiful day.”

“No, I haven’t, that sounds good.” Graeme’s brow furrows. It wasn’t exactly an answer. His level of anxiety, already simmering on a back burner because of orientation, kicks up a notch.

He’s bolstered a little when Alan reaches over the console and seeks out his hand with a small grin. Smiling back, he takes Alan’s hand, tracing over his knuckles with his thumb as they wind through Seattle traffic and sing along to the music.

 

At the park, Alan takes his hand again, and sets their pace at a leisurely stroll.

They’re standing in front of a large red iron piece, an abstract eagle, when Alan tugs his hand toward a bench and presses him down on it. “I need you to sit, and— And I’m going to tell you something, and you have every right to feel anxious about it, but I promise everything is going to be okay.”

Graeme’s heart pounds in his chest, hard enough that he feels a wave of dizziness, or maybe that’s just a new anxiety symptom, his mind is always learning new tricks, why the fuck can’t it just be an old dog?

_Alan’s tired of me. Alan’s dying. Alan’s sick. Alan’s family hates me. Alan’s company is bankrupt. Threepio or Artoo are dying. They already died. Alan had to take them to the vet and put them down and he didn’t take me along because he doesn’t trust me to share that experience with him but now he’s devastated so I need to be there to support him but also I’m feeling hurt but also this isn’t about me—_

“Graeme, baby—” Alan drops to the bench, taking Graeme’s hands in his lap. “I’m just going to say it, okay? That’ll make it better.”

Graeme forces his eyes up to Alan’s face. Alan’s kind, handsome, fucking homey and loving and comfortable face. Graeme knows that face by heart. That face practically _is_ his heart at this point. “O—okay. Please do that.”

“Your mom came to my office today.”

The adrenaline rush that had accompanied the first spiral of thoughts — well, if Graeme had thought that sucked, this is much worse. He feels the hormone spike through each of his veins, simultaneously and yet like he can feel each one individually. His nerves light up, and he twitches involuntarily, then shudders, and drops Alan’s hands, hugging himself, trying to get rid of the feeling. “Oh, oh fuck.”

Alan cups his cheek. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay. You don’t have to see her. You don’t have to think about her ever again, okay?”

“What did she— god, she asked for money, didn’t she?” His stomach is raw, he feels like he might throw up. He’d give his right arm for a bottle of water right now… There. One of those park stands with water and juice and hot dogs. Movements jerky, he stands, striding over, feeling Alan follow in his wake.

He pulls a crumpled dollar out of his pocket and exchanges it for a water from the ice cooler, all wet with condensation. It’s not like it’s warm outside, but he’s both hot and cold, and he presses the bottle to his face before he cracks it open and starts taking small sips.

“Yeah, okay, yeah, that’s good, baby, keep doing that,” Alan is murmuring, his hand rubbing over the small of Graeme’s back.

“Tell me.”

“Do you want to sit down again, or—”

Graeme shakes his head fiercely. “Tell. Me.”

 ---------------

From what Graeme has told him, he knows that Bridget Webster is no more than a decade older than him, having had Graeme at eighteen. He’s surprised by her appearance, when Mal finally shows her back. She looks… tired, is the best way to describe it, wearing a worn blouse and equally worn jeans. She gave Graeme her hair, obviously, pulled back in a curly ponytail at the moment. And his gray eyes.

He wants to imagine that the eyes are malevolent. He remembers nights — one just a day before they left for Port Orchard, even — where Graeme has lain awake, unable to stop the spirals. He has seen firsthand Graeme’s excessive need for reassurance, born out of his anxiety, yes, but nurtured by the fact that his childhood was anything but reassuring of his value. He wants to steel his heart against her, against any pity he might feel.

Except that those eyes aren’t malevolent, or shrewd, or anything but tired. Her skin is wan, worn, her lips pressed constantly together in a thin line.

Everyone has their own shit, Alan is reminded. Ultimately, it’s going to be Graeme’s decision, whatever happens here — any thought that he might hide the meeting passes in and out of his brain in an instant. He’ll fill Graeme in on what happened, and let him choose.

He may be Graeme’s Dom, but that control doesn’t extend anywhere beyond playtime.

He attempts some sort of neutrality as he welcomes her, trying not to be overly cold or warm. Like she’s not important enough to get worked up about. Maybe that’s cruel, but he has his own heart to protect, and Graeme’s nestled right up in it.

“Mr. Garry,” she says with a little nod, and he shakes her hand and indicates a seat across from his desk. He doesn’t tell her to call him Alan.

“Ms. Webster.”

“You’re probably wondering why I’m here.”

Alan shrugs, pretending to check something on his computer screen. “I assumed I’d meet Graeme’s mother eventually. I figured it would be on his terms, though.”

She clears her throat, but doesn’t look embarrassed, which makes Alan thinks the sound was for show. “Oh, if we left it up to that child, we’d never meet. I’m sure he’s told you horrible things about me.”

“If Graeme never wanted us to meet, then I would have rather gone with his wishes.”

“So he has, then.” She tries a smile, and it’s not unattractive. Her eyes, though. They aren’t just the same color as Graeme’s, they do that same thing Graeme’s does, when he’s upset and his smile doesn’t reach his eyes, but he’s pretending anyway.

“What do you need, Ms. Webster?”

“I don’t know. I saw my Graeme-cracker-" Alan holds back a cringe at the nickname, but Bridget doesn't notice anyway, "on one of those websites, you know, one of my neighbors follows that trash and she came running up to me and asking me about it. So embarrassing to not be told about these things."

It occurs to Alan that he's never asked Graeme about coming out to his mom, if he did or not. He frowns.

Bridget offers a dainty little shrug. "Graeme’s obviously snagged a good life with you. Maybe he should think of the woman who gave him life in the first place, and paid for him for 18 years.”

 _I notice you don't say 'take care of,' just 'paid for.' And I’m fairly sure you did that for less that 18 years, but yeah, okay, whatever._ “Or maybe _I_ should, is that what you’re saying? You need money?”

“Everyone needs money, honey.” Bridget’s smile is humorless, and again, doesn’t reach her eyes. Alan recognizes the turn of phrase from Graeme, and feels a little sick. 

It’s not a threat. It’s not blackmail. Alan thinks she actually believes she’s due something for birthing Graeme.

He looks down at his phone, pretending to check the time. The lock screen is a selfie they took together this past weekend, all bundled up on the deck of the ferry, their faces rosey and happy. Alan kind of wants to get it printed and framed. And possibly use it as their engagement photo. You know, way, _way_ in the future.

Determined, bolstered by the image of them together, he stands, his fingers steepling on his desk. “I’m not going to pay you. If Graeme wants to reconcile with you, he will do so on his own terms and with my full support, whatever he decides. Until that happens — _if_ that happens — you will not be allowed back to see me again, so I wouldn’t suggest trying. The second you walk out of that door, I’m going him to tell him, so don’t think you can play us against each other. Did you want anything else? Something more attainable? I’d hate to be a bad host.”

Bridget’s mouth presses into a thin line. “I want what I’m owed.”

“Graeme gets to decide exactly what you’re owed. I’ll support him however he needs.”

Her hands clench together in her lap, and then she pushes herself to her feet, an unhappy smirk on her lips. “Gotta hand it to the kid. Snagged a way better catch than I’ve ever gotten on what, his first try? Second? Hope he’s setting away some for when you get tired of him.”

He strides to his office door and opens it, trying not to let her words bother him. “Ms. Webster,” he says in his best dismissive tone.

That small smirk doesn’t go away as she walks out.

\---------------------------

  
It’s Bridget Webster to a T, of course. Not abusive. Just— just looking for what the world owes her.

By the time Alan’s done relaying everything, practically twice with the amount of cool questions Graeme has asked — he’s not quite sure where the coolness is coming from, but maybe from the fact that he feels rather disconnected from reality right now, and isn’t that a fun new symptom? — they’ve walked the length of the park and have turned around again. Graeme finds himself staring at a building-sized human bust. It’s— pretty, in a way. Blank. He kind of feels blank right now. 

“Graeme?”

Graeme blinks.

“We can go home, if you want. I thought maybe— being near the water— I just— I’m sorry. I couldn’t not tell you, maybe I did it in a bad way—”

Graeme thrusts the almost empty water bottle under his arm, the plastic crinkling, and scrubs his hand over his face. Reality is crashing back down around him, even though he's fairly sure he's still dissociating. The one thing his brain is screaming is  _PROTECT ALAN._ “No. No, you did it great. I’m— I’m getting better, I just. You did it great, okay?”

“O— okay.” Alan sounds a little lost.

 _Protect Alan._ He clears his throat, tries to clear his brain. Weird how his brain feels so messy when he just feels blank. Shouldn't it be one or the other? He knows how he can protect Alan. “We should, um. Maybe go back. I can cook dinner.”

“Graeme—”

“I’m okay. Just— I’d rather not be in public for this, okay?”

“For this?”

Graeme gives him a look. “Public!”

“What are you doing?” Alan asks skeptically, his eyes narrowing.

Graeme’s fist balls at his side. “Breaking up with you! There, okay? I was trying to have a little class, trying to save you a little face, I assumed you didn’t want it posted on the internet or whatever!”

Alan’s mouth opens, then closes again, so he looks a little like a fish. Graeme’s crazy brain wants him to laugh, and he bites his lip hard enough to draw blood so he won’t. Not at Alan. Not like this. _Protect Alan._

Alan takes a deep breath, eyes on Graeme, then opens his mouth again. He sounds strangely calm. “No, you’re not. Not over that. Tell me you’re tired of me or that you don’t want to be with me or that you hate me— you’re not breaking up with me because your mom asked me for money.”

“Yeah? First my mom, and then my former drug dealer. And then the guy I used to blow for rent money. You really want to be seen with what amounts to a prostitute? I’m a fucking mess, Alan, and you have a right to a clean life.”

“No.” Alan crosses his hands over his chest.

“You can’t refuse to let me break up with you.”

“I can if it’s for a stupid reason.”

“You being harassed is not a stupid reason!”

“You really think Mal would let a fucking drug dealer have access to my office? Your mom was a special case, because she’s your fucking _mom_ and I had to see what she wanted. I’m not just going to let anyone who wants money from me waltz in and take it. How the hell do you think I got this far? I'm not a pushover, except, I guess, when it comes to making you happy.” 

It makes Graeme sigh out a deep breath, trying to show Alan the logic. “And if they go to the press?”

“For fucking what? To tell the story of a kid who had nothing and no one and a messy brain, so he did what he had to to survive?”

“This is Seattle, sure, but it’s not _that_ liberal.”

“I don’t give a flying fuck what anyone prints about you. And if anyone does, well, I have better connections. We’ll get your side out. Or whatever you want to do.” Alan searches his face, then deflates at whatever determination he sees there, dropping to his knees. “Please don’t go.”

And that’s not right, either, Alan on his knees. They’re equals, aren’t they? Alan said so.

So he drops to his knees, too, and takes Alan’s hands. “I’m trying to do what’s best for you.”

“Don’t. You’re what’s best for me. Let me do you.” Alan tries a small grin, and it grounds Graeme; whatever that feeling of unreality is, it comes crashing back down to earth at Alan’s sex joke.

“I think I love you,” Graeme whispers.

“So don’t break up with me.” His grin grows, like he knows he’s won.

He has, though. Or they both have, Graeme supposes. Because then Graeme’s cupping his face, his fingers sliding over Alan’s beard, and bringing him down for a kiss. “Okay,” he whispers when they’ve broken apart for a moment.

Just a moment, though, because then Alan’s kissing him again, and again, and he has to break it off and remind Alan they’re in a public place.

“I don’t fucking care, I love you,” Alan says back fiercely.

“The photographers might care.”

“Maybe we should just make it a common enough occurrence that they get bored of us.”

“What, so we should just go to lots of public places and then I almost panic break up with you and then we kiss it all better?”

Alan’s hand slips behind Graeme’s head, and he pulls Graeme in for another kiss. “No, next time let’s argue about something with more merit, like what’s better, grilled cheese or pizza.”

Graeme raises an eyebrow. “Grilled cheese, hands down.”

“I _knew_ you’d say that! You’re such a comfort food person! But, and okay, stay with me here, pizza…cheese pizza… that’s basically grilled cheese, right there! And then you can add _toppings—”_

Graeme makes a fist in Alan’s shirt and tugs him forward. “Shut up, dork,” he snarls against Alan’s lips before taking another kiss.

“Smartass,” Alan grumbles, pulling them to their feet and hauling Graeme close to his side to walk back to the car, stopping every few feet to kiss him another dozen times or so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys this is where I admit that these last two chapters are why this book will never be published for money. I tried to make a lot of different conflicts work, pounded my head against a brick wall, talked a billion different things out with my friend Lefite, and none of it really worked in a way that a romance novel should. So instead you get this kind of weak climax, and at least a mutual declaration of love. I hope it's not too disappointing. When I started posting on Ao3, I had it all written, but I kind of hoped I'd be struck by some brilliance in the weeks before I'd have to publish chapter 30. No such luck. So, like I said, I know it's not super satisfying like a novel you pay for would be, and I'm hoping I have a bit better conflict set up for the sequel, but this is what I have for this one, and welp. On to the smutty epilogue.


	31. Epilogue: Sensation Play Scene - Graeme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> smutttttt  
> and feels  
> and then smuttttt
> 
> Because sensation play, there is some tickling involved in this scene, with a feather, so heads up if that makes you uncomfortable.

Graeme’s fingers run over the warm oak wood of the end table. There are an array of tools along it, ones Graeme now knows the name of because when they’d negotiated this scene, Alan had sat him on his knee and explained every single piece to him. Which had led to him wrapping his hand around Graeme’s talk-excited cock and talking him off.

That had been last night. Two nights ago, after the melodrama of the sculpture park, he and Alan had spent a quiet night at home, wrapped in each other and cats, letting themselves come down. Yesterday morning, Graeme had felt like they were on an even keel again, a united front against whatever Graeme's past wanted to throw at them. They'd gone to a nice munch with Krista/Barbie, and had gotten on the topic of sensation play again. Seated on Alan's lap out in public, already sort of in the headspace, Graeme had asked his daddy very sweetly about doing a scene. Which brought them to last night.  At the thought of Alan’s deep, calm voice in his ear, explaining what he was going to do to with each item, Graeme shivers.

He feels Alan’s touch at the small of his back, and straightens, a little.

“Color, baby boy?”

“Green. I’m still green.”

Alan presses a kiss to his hair, still wet from his shower. “And if you need me to pause, or stop?”

“Yellow and red. I’m good, honey.”

“They’re important, every time.” It’s amazing, but Alan’s small correction doesn’t make Graeme feel stupid. “I need you to know you’re safe, and that I won’t be disappointed or upset if you use yellow or red.”

Graeme turns, giving Alan a small smile, and reaching up to peck his cheek. “I feel safe. Thank you for explaining.”

Alan tugs at the tie of Graeme’s silk robe, pulling him closer and loosening the knot at the same time. The robe had mysteriously appeared in Graeme's closet the day after getting back from vacation. “I’m not going to restrict you, or blindfold you, this time.” Graeme shivers a little at ‘this time.’ “This is just an experiment, to see what you like. I need you to be good and stay as still for me as you can, though, okay, baby boy? Do you understand?”

Graeme swiftly nods. “Yes, Daddy, I understand.”

Alan rewards him with an approving smile, the one that always makes Graeme’s heart want to melt right down to his toes. “Perfect.” He traces a finger over Graeme’s smooth jaw, then kisses him — just the briefest touch. He finishes untying the knot and pushes the robe off of Graeme’s shoulders to pool on the ground. The sudden chill where his skin is still wet makes Graeme shiver, but not out of discomfort, and it’s like Alan can tell that he likes it, because his smile turns to a grin. “Get on the bed. Lay down.”

Graeme complies, letting his head fall back on the pillow. There’s an extra sheet, silk, over what feels like a towel — easier clean up, he supposes, and the silk feels amazing against his skin. Okay so maybe he really did like soft things.

Alan’s in a pair of his loose yoga pants, the ones that fall loosely around his calves and look like sweats, but do _amazing, splendorous_ things to his ass and thighs.

_Mmm. Alan's thighs._

Graeme must have a _look_ on his face, because Alan grins as he sits beside him and smooths a hand over his leg.

“Would you let me eat you out someday?” Graeme bursts out with, not even knowing he’d been thinking it.

Alan’s surprised into a startled laugh. “Uh. Maybe? What brings that up?”

“I was thinking about your thighs wrapped around my head.”

Alan’s fingers run in small circles up his bare leg, making him shiver. “Naughty boy. I like it, and I’ll think about it, okay?”

“Okay. No pressure.”

“Of course.” He leans over, pressing a kiss to Graeme’s stomach. It’s gotten a little softer since he started living with Alan; he’s put on a healthy amount of weight, and he’s proud of it.

Alan keeps the finger brushes light, all over his body, working down to his feet and rubbing over the new polish on his nails. “You painted without me,” Alan says with a pout.

“Sorry, Daddy, I’ll wait next time.”

“Good.” He kisses the pad of Graeme’s big toe, then works his way back up, and turns to the end table, a considering look on his face.

Graeme’s almost disappointed when Alan passes over the special candles, even though he knows they’re not set up correctly for it.

\------

_Graeme frowns, examining the candle, a deep red. “They don’t, um— they don’t burn, do they? I’ve gotten enough burns from the fryers at the Burger Joint, and I never found it pleasant.”_

_“Well, the context will be different, but no, they don’t burn. There’s pain, and it might feel a bit like a sunburn afterwards. I generally have aloe handy for my sub.”_

_“Do you do, like, a lot, or…” Graeme’s not even really sure how to ask the question._

_Alan pulls out his phone and runs a quick search, then clicks on a site. “It depends, honestly. It could be like this, just a little.” It’s a picture of a woman, drops of wax falling on her nipples. Graeme takes in a short breath involuntarily. “Or something more elaborate.” This time, a male, his body covered in different colors, running together and pooling. He looks sort of like an art piece._

_“Pretty,” Graeme murmurs, and he means it, even though he’s having a hard time imagining the heat. That he could be that pretty, though... there's something very appealing in that.  
_

_“Want to try a little bit? Just a tester?”_

_“Sure.” It’s easy to say yes, when he feels safe._

_“Let me go get a cloth, just in case we drip.” With a peck on his forehead, Alan sets him back on the bed, and walks to and from the bathroom. He’s settled back on Alan’s lap before he can even miss the feeling of being surrounded by him._

_“There’s a fire extinguisher in with the toys, FYI. Just in case. Safety first. I check the pressure monthly when I do my other kink equipment checks.”_

_Graeme scratches his fingers in Alan’s beard before tugging a little. “Dork,” he murmurs with the depth of affection he feels._

_Alan captures his thumb, nipping it in retaliation._

_“Thank you for making sure we’re safe, honey, though, seriously.”_

_Alan kisses his forehead again. “Absolutely.”_

_He finds the small metal lighter and flicks it open, testing the flame once before lighting the candle. As red wax starts to pool, Alan explains, “I’ll hold it up away from your body, so it has a chance to cool a bit before landing on your skin. Also, depending on where we do it, if we do it, I might want to shave you. It can get painful in aftercare if you don’t.” He holds out his own hand, and lifts the candle above it, letting red wax drop from a foot or so onto the back of his hand. He flinches slightly, but breathes through it. “Still green?”_

_“Yeah, green.” Graeme holds out his hand, palm down, and watches as Alan repeats the process for him. There’s an immediate sting, and his hand pulls back harder than Alan’s had. He’s used to a much more painful burn from fry oil, though; the pain from this flashes for a second before turning into much more of a dull thing as the warmth from the wax spreads over his skin. He tries to imagine having that feeling on his back, or his chest, over his nipples, and his breath catches._

_“You with me, baby? Color?”_

_“Green,” Graeme rasps. “Put it on the list, I want to try more.”_

\-------

Instead, Alan’s fingers stop at the feather, and Graeme shivers. This, when they’d tried it, Alan had run along his neck, making Graeme shudder, his cock jump.

“If any place is too ticklish, use your safe words, okay? Remember, I need you to be as still as possible for me, baby boy.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

He’s glad Alan didn’t blindfold him, because he likes watching Alan’s eyes as they travel over Graeme’s body, concentrating on him. He’s the center of Alan’s attention, and that very fact makes him feel loved and cherished and safe. Safe to slip into his subspace, if he wants. He knows the blindfold will heighten the feelings, but for now, he likes it like this.

Alan starts at his face, and it should probably look silly, should feel silly, but it doesn’t. Graeme’s already hard, has been since they started the scene, basically, and his cock twitches at that first touch. He hopes that doesn’t count in the whole ‘no moving’ rule, but Alan doesn’t reprimand him, so it must not.

Graeme feels the hairs stand up on his arm as his skin erupts in gooseflesh at the feel of the feather tracing gently over it. That makes Alan smile. “You’re so responsive. Even with this. You’re beautiful, love.”

Graeme fights against squirming. “Thanks, Daddy,” he says instead, breathless.

When the feather reaches his stomach, he’s unable to stop himself from twitching, and Alan pauses, looking back up at him and raising an inquiring brow.

“Um. Yellow-green?” God, how is he already so turned on? He barely recognizes his voice. His body is fraught with anticipation of the next touch. “I like the feeling but I don’t know if I can stay still, Daddy,” he admits.

“Good, thank you for telling me.”

Alan moves on, the feather brushing over his hip, teasing by his crotch but not touching his cock — if he had, Graeme’s not sure he would have been able to hold himself back from coming.

“I’m going to turn you over.” Alan’s hands are gentle as he does, rolling Graeme, making sure he’s comfortable. Graeme gives him a thumbs up and another ‘green.’

“I’m going to get a little more intense, too, okay?”

Graeme watches Alan reach for the Wartenberg pinwheel.

\--------

_“What is that? It looks like some type of fucked up pizza cutter.”_

_Alan laughs, pulling the spiky metal tool toward them. “Wartenberg pinwheel, or just pinwheel. Feel.” He holds it up, and Graeme touches one of the spikes, trying to imagine what its use could be._

_“A doctor invented it to test for nerve response.”_

_“Do you, like...poke it into the skin?” Graeme may sound a little horrified._

_“No, there are better tools for that, if you want to mess around with edge play. Some Doms even put permanent piercings in their subs during a scene.”_

_“Oh.” Graeme goes quiet for a second. “I think that might be a hard no for me.”_

_“No problem.” Alan opens up his phone and pulls up an app, typing something._

_“Did you put my preferences in your phone?”_

_“Don’t worry, it’s super encrypted.”_

_“No, I mean. That’s kind of sweet, in a dorky, Alan way.”_

_“It just made sense.” Alan’s blushing, and it’s the sweetest thing._

_Graeme holds out his arm. “So, try it on me?”_

_Alan smiles, running the pinwheel up his forearm. It’s a light, prickling sensation, but not much more. Graeme shrugs._

_“It’s better when the endorphins are already flowing, plus I did it pretty light. It’ll be more intense in a scene.”_

_“Just as long as you don’t pierce me with it.”_

_“Got it.”_

\-------

He knows Alan picked up the pinwheel, but when he feels the next touch, he almost doesn’t recognize it as that. The pricks are much more intense, rolling up the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. Each spike seems to set off an explosion of feeling through his nerve endings, and when Alan chases it with the feather, right behind, Graeme can’t help but squirm, arching his back and moaning.

“Mmm, baby boy, I need you to be good and stay still for me. If you move again, I’m going to spank you, do you understand?”

“Yes, Daddy,” he whispers, flushing with embarrassment at disappointing Alan.

The pinwheel tiptoes down his back, to one side of his spine, and then the other, and Graeme’s hand twitches in the silk. He rubs his cheek against it subtly, trying not to move again. It’s just so fucking good, almost like when he feels spikes of adrenaline go through all of his nerves, except this is chased by pleasure, not fear.

He wants to rub more than his cheek against the silk. He wants to rub his whole body, he wants to rut against the bed until he comes, but he wants Alan’s approval more, at least, at the moment he does.

He’s not sure what will happen if Alan keeps driving him crazy.

Graeme is becoming used to the pinwheel when the feather brushes over his hole, and down across his perineum, and he arches violently, against his own will. “I’m— Daddy, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“Shhhh, shhh, baby boy, it’s okay.” He feels Alan’s beard as his kisses the back of his neck. Alan’s hand is warm on the small of his back. “I know. Daddy’s being such an awful tease, isn’t he?”

Graeme nods, chewing on his lower lip.

“Should Daddy give you another chance?”

Graeme pauses, then looks up to Alan’s soft eyes, hooded with satisfaction. Slowly, deliberately, he shakes his head. He watches Alan’s eyes flare with pleasure and understanding. So he’s curious about what spanking feels like. Sue him.

“All right, baby. You’re going to help me keep count. We’re going to five, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Color?”

“Green.”

Alan’s hand smooths over his bare asscheek, warming it as Graeme tries his hardest not to move, not to arch his back. There’s a small warning in the fact that he feels Alan lift his hand, and Alan doesn’t keep him waiting, striking down directly on the meat of his ass, the feeling radiating out from the center.

Graeme gasps and cries out, suddenly glad Alan hadn’t asked him to be silent. “One,” he whispers, his fingers still clutching at the silk sheet. He knows it wasn't a hard hit, that Alan's just getting him warmed up, but it still makes his nerves tingle. 

“Good job, baby boy.”

The hand comes down again, on the other cheek, the same amount of strength. Graeme can tell it’s nowhere near Alan’s full strength, not that it ever would be. “Two.”

“You’re thinking too much, anticipating. You’re curious,” Alan says softly. “That’s okay. Do you want to be curious, or do you want to go under, baby?”

Graeme’s fingers unclutch, and he looks back at Alan, who’s looking down at his face. He _had_ felt himself holding back from subspace because of his curiosity, is the thing. Alan is too fucking good at this. “Go under.”

“Okay. Here’s what I want you to do, if you’re comfortable. I want you to close your eyes. I’m going to restrict you a little more — gag you, and tie your wrists to the headboard. Color?”

“Green.” He lets his eyes close as Alan moves around the bed, working efficiently.

The silk ties feel soft on his skin, but when he tugs, they’re strong. “I want you to pull at them whenever you feel like moving, baby boy. Okay? I know you can do this. You’re such a good, strong boy.”

When Alan touches his cheek, Graeme’s eyes open. He’s seen the ball gag before, has tested it out, but they haven’t used it in a scene. He licks his lips. It reminds him of when he’s zoned out on Alan’s cock, his mouth stuffed, jaw aching in that way that means he’s doing a good job. As the strap snicks into place, he slides a little further into his headspace. Good. This was a good move on Alan’s part, which Graeme _tries_ not to think, but does anyway.

“God, you’re fucking gorgeous like this, baby boy.” Alan caresses his cheek. “Eyes closed, now, there you go.”

Alan lets him feel his hand on his ass again before he goes back to spanking. With something more tangible in his fingers, he moans, and pulls, and manages to keep his body still. “Three, good boy, that’s it. Just two more.”

The fourth lands directly where the first one had, stinging a little more, bringing tears to Graeme’s eyes as he tugs on the ties. _Oh, oh fuck, that’s good—_ and this, if anything, this is what confirms for him that he’s a masochist. He wants more, _more._ Wants Alan to spank him the way he did Jacob, with a spoon, with a paddle, with—

He gasps at the next blow — it’s lighter, but it’s not Alan’s hand. He thinks it might be the pinwheel, on it’s side, there’s a sharpness to it, and even though it’s a light hit, his already sensitive skin stings. Now, the pinwheel moves over the skin of his ass, inflamed and hot and prickling.

He tongues the ball gag, pretending it’s Alan’s cock, sucking on it as he tugs on the ties, lost in sensation. He can feel drool run down his chin. His biceps are straining as his pulls, as Alan does all manner of things to his ass, his back, his thighs, his ribs. Feather, pinwheel, hand, he loses track, like Alan wanted him to, slipping under. He knows he’s drooling on the silk sheet, his cock leaking as it grinds into the bed.

Something cool lands on his ass, and Alan rubs it in, blowing on it. It’s such a contrast to the hot skin, Graeme shivers. “Daddy—” he tries to cry, but it’s lost around the ball gag. Alan continues — if Graeme needs to stop, all he needs to do is make the signal with his hands. He doesn’t want to stop, anyway, just express something, _anything._

Alan pushes him up on his knees, his head and shoulders still pressed to the bed. Graeme’s barely aware of it, but he does feel the cool air of the room on the wet tip of his cock. “I’m going to touch you, baby boy, and I want you to come whenever you feel like it.”

Graeme nods, helpless. Alan’s fingers are light, touching everywhere but his cock, making him seek it, making him feel, making him slip farther under. More pricks from the pinwheel on his back, over his ass.

The _second_ the feather touches his cock head, he twitches, groaning, and comes all over the sheet. Alan continues to torture him with it, running it down his cock, over his balls, as Graeme keeps fucking the air and doing his best to empty. He whimpers now, finally giving his signal, unable to take the sensitivity.

Alan immediately stops, eases him carefully down onto his back, away from the wet spot. “You did such a good job for me, baby boy. You’re so good,” Alan keeps murmuring as he works open the knots on the ties and massages Graeme’s shoulders. Next comes the ball gag, Alan’s fingers working over his jaw to loosen it. Finally, he’s wrapped in his robe again, settled on Alan’s lap on the clean side of the bed, being rocked as he shivers, coming down from the endorphin high.

“That was good, Alan,” Graeme whispers, his signal he’s back. “Didn’t go under as far as I sometimes do, though.” He frowns.

“Nothing to worry about, Graeme. It’s different every time. Sometimes you won’t, sometimes you will. You might go further with this same stuff, next time, because now you know what to expect.” Alan warms some lotion in his hands, letting Graeme sniff it — a nice, sandalwood scent — before slowly working it into Graeme’s skin everywhere he can get access. “And I’m learning you, and your responses, and your body, too.”

“How are you feeling?” he asks as Alan massages lotion into his arm. He lays his head on Alan’s shoulder and watches, lazily.

Alan takes a moment to self-assess, in which Graeme is grateful that Alan takes his own aftercare as seriously as he takes Graeme’s. “I’m perfect, baby, thanks for asking. I like the process, learning what a new sub likes, how exactly to take them under. I like it more, because it’s you, and I know I have a lot more time with you to look forward to.”

Graeme sighs happily, drawing Alan into a hug, and then just staying there. “Yeah, we do.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I know it's hard to take a chance on original work, so I appreciate it!


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